Each Coming Night
by balmorhea
Summary: Sirius escapes from Azkaban with the intention of finding Pettigrew and avenging the Potters. What he doesn't know is that protecting Harry is much more difficult than uncovering a certain rat.
1. Escape

**Summary:** Sirius escapes from Azkaban in Harry's third year with the intention of finding Peter Pettigrew and avenging the Potters. What he doesn't know is that protecting Harry is much more difficult than uncovering a certain hidden rat. Sirius, who has discovered a secret plot to return Voldemort to power, finds himself entering the Death Eater's inner circle in an attempt to save Harry. But when a siege goes awry, Sirius barely manages to escape with a shocked and disgruntled Harry. Now that everyone is on the lookout for them, will Sirius cave and bond with his godson, or stick to the plan and lay down his life to uphold his promise to James?

**Disclaimer:** only a moderate income (thousands per hit) is being made by this story. Not enough to alert anybody, really.

Chapter one:

The sky was a flat grey, and the air damp with the receding storm. The ocean swelled with an enormous sigh, waves crashing upon the rocky island, the cliffs cut smooth as glass.

Albert Penn shifted his weight as he waited outside the heavy gates that were the only break in the stone wall surrounding the island's perimeter. He pulled out a gold pocket watch, checking the hour for the hundredth time that morning, grumpily acknowledging that on a normal day, his alarm wouldn't go off for another fifteen minutes.

There was a high-pitched creak as the gates swung open, creaking in their rusty hinges, allowing Penn and his company to pass through. As they trudged up the damp, weathered stone steps to the entrance of the fortress, Penn saw that there wasn't a single plant–everything was rock and dirt and sand.

On a proper day, there simply was no life on the island, and it seemed strange that it was suddenly teeming with animated people–people shocked, afraid, and stressed, running back and forth and muttering to each other. Penn wondered whether it was enough to break the frozen air surrounding the prison, even momentarily.

Heavy wooden doors groaned as they were opened magically, allowing Penn and his company to step into the main entrance of the prison. Torches burned hesitantly from brackets that were normally cold and dark. The shadows retreated to the far corners and behind pillars, where the light couldn't quite reach.

"Detective Albert Penn, Senior Director of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad," said Penn, holding out his badge and identification for the guards checking them in. "Has the Minister arrived?"

"He will be here shortly," said the nearest guard. "The warden is just down the hall in the Securities Office, waiting for you."

Penn nodded to the guard once, then stepped through a low doorway normally sealed by a heavy stone door. He was led to an office just off to the right, where a group of men were discussing something.

"Detective Constable Penn, sir," said the guard as he stepped back to let Penn and his men pass.

The warden was a weathered-looking man, as though the salty air carved grooves between the wrinkles of his face and hands. His silver hair and beard were cropped short, and his horn-rimmed glasses supported thick lenses. Despite the obvious aging his career had done to him, the warden had an energy about him characteristic of someone half his age. "Detective Penn," he greeted, shaking the man's hand. "Good to finally meet you, though I would have preferred better circumstances."

"Thank you, Warden."

The officer the warden had been speaking to handed Penn a water-stained file and a single worn photograph, over a decade old.

"The prisoner escaped within the past six hours—the guards raised the alarm just after midnight," he began without preamble. Penn pulled out a notebook from his coat pocket. "There is no sign of outside help; there were no visitors, no outside communication whatsoever. We don't know how he got out of his cell. He was one of the most heavily guarded; dementors outside his door day and night."

"Do you suspect he may have found a way off the island?" Penn asked.

"I don't know whether he made it to the mainland, but he's certainly not here. The dementors have been combing it for hours, searching the smallest of cracks."

Crouch sighed. "I doubt whether even Black is crazy enough to jump into the sea in this weather."

"The walls of this prison are six inches of solid masonry," said the warden. "The gates are fifteen feet high and hammered out of wrought iron. The mainland is ten nautical miles away, and the water is freezing. And yet he's gone. It's like he evaporated through the walls," he said, glancing around the cramped stone office. "There is no trace of him anywhere on the island. We have to assume he made it off, if not somehow back to the mainland."

Penn exchanged glances with his partner for the case, Barty Crouch. While Crouch was now working for the Department of International Magical Cooperation, he had the most experience out of anyone in the Ministry in successfully hunting down Death Eaters. He had offered to help search for Black the moment word hit the Ministry, and Cornelius Fudge was more than happy to accept. While Penn appreciated the experienced help, he couldn't help but feel that Crouch was using Black's esape as a political maneuver. It was well-known that Crouch wanted to catch just one more high-profile Death Eater and regain his popularity.

"We're assuming Black is dangerous," said Crouch as Penn made another note in his pocketbook. "How dangerous would it be safe to assume he is? What might his–ah–mental state be like at this point? What might he be capable of?"

The warden gave him a sharp look. "Not many prisoners–maximum security prisoners–make it to the ten-year mark; they either lose the will to live, or die of some other cause. Black's been here for twelve. Why would he hang on for nothing? He's obviously done it for a reason. Black had to have been plotting his escape–possibly even since day one–and not only is he plotting, because that means he's sound of mind to some level–he's executing these plots. No one has ever broken out of Azkaban before, and yet Black–who by all means should have wasted away like the others–has done it, and left without the slightest clue as to how. The only way to have gone through all this trouble is if he's out for something, something that can stand against twelve years, dementors, and prison walls."

"So Black's a madman, then," came a voice from the doorway. Penn and the others turned around to see a very tired, distracted-looking Fudge, who had just arrived.

The warden's brows knitted together in disagreement. "A madman couldn't have escaped Azkaban, Minister. Black appears to know what he's doing. We just have to find out what that is before it's too late."

"Is there any evidence that might tell us what prompted Black to escape?" Crouch asked, scratching his temple.

The warden exchanged glances with the officer. "The dementors guarding Black's cell told us he's been talking in his sleep lately–always the same words, though we can't make sense of it. 'He's at Hogwarts. He's at Hogwarts.'"

Penn and Crouch exchanged horrified looks.

"Merlin help us," whispered Fudge.

* * *

Sirius still felt like he was moving. Icy water tugged at his body and every now and then a fresh wave might crash over his shoulders, sometimes his head. Gasping for the cold air tore at his lungs like sandpaper, and coughing up seawater was like choking on knives. It was a while before he realized he was lying on a rocky beach somewhere, and the strange feeling of motion was actually the tide welling up around him before receding again.

He just lay there for a long time, unable to muster the energy to look around and figure out if he was in the open or miraculously washed up somewhere hidden. He didn't care. His limbs seemed to be melting into the sandy, rocky ground beneath him, and it was so _bright. _Even with his eyes shut, the morning light was causing him pain.

And the sea. Waves seemed to crash into the beach with the force of a thousand elephants, echoing in his ears. Even the call of gulls in the distance seemed amplified. Azkaban had this strange way of muting noise, and outside of it, everything just seemed so loud.

For some time, Sirius just lay there, reflecting on the miracle that he was alive at all. It was only his luck that there would be a storm raging outside–you could never really tell inside the prison because it was always dark and cold, regardless of the weather.

Then slowly, but determinedly, realization began to set in. He had escaped Azkaban, and washed up on a beach somewhere. The painfully bright light obviously indicated morning had arrived, which meant the Ministry would know he wasn't in his cell. Just how much time had elapsed since then? At least a few hours, surely.

A few hours.

That meant a few hours the Ministry had gained on him. They could be combing the shore fifty meters away right now.

This fearful realization was all it took for Sirius to drag his stiff arms into life, forcing himself up. He tried to move his legs underneath him, but they were so stiff from the cold water that they barely obeyed, and only in a painfully slow manner. The rocks felt strange beneath Sirius' numbed senses, and as he tried to move one arm forward, he collapsed under his own weight.

This was not going to be easy.

Sirius squinted across the beach, seeing nothing but rock, sand, and the occasional plant bravely protruding from a crevice here and there. The boulders in front of him, which had created a steep wall, were covered with white barnacles. Somewhere in the distance, he heard a dog barking. This was immediately followed by a human voice, being carried over through the salty breeze.

Sirius let out a muffled groan–not only did he risk being caught any second by a horde of Ministry workers, but random strangers might accidentally happen upon him. Sirius vaguely wondered whether the Ministry had already released the news of his escape. Would they save it for the wizarding world, or would they figure the risk was so great the muggle world had to be alerted as well? Sirius thought that would be ironic–they wouldn't alert the muggle world about Voldemort, but they'd warn them about the supposedly highly-dangerous Sirius Black–who was currently so exhausted and freezing he could probably be overpowered by a well-fed six-year-old at the moment.

As he laid there, the cold seemed to grow more painful. Sirius knew he had to get up–not only to hide, but to somehow get dry. He would freeze to death if he didn't. But that thought alone wasn't enough to suddenly fill his exhausted, frozen veins with a new burst of energy. He was just too tired, and too cold. Even his brain started to feel as though it was slowing down, and he was fuzzy on why he had escaped at all.

Harry.

The thought suddenly entered his mind like a lightning bolt.

Harry was in danger. Peter was alive, and no one knew how close he was to Harry. It would only take a whisper of Voldemort regaining strength for Peter to be perfectly positioned to hand Harry over, no one any the wiser. He had to prevent it from happening. He had to kill Peter.

Sirius forced himself up again, this time with determination. He managed to get to his feet and stagger forward a few paces before transforming into a great, black dog. He shook the sea water from his matted fur and took off down the beach.


	2. Blindsided

Chapter two:

Penn hated the dementors the most. The dark prison, the pale, ghostly prisoners–that was all bearable. That could never get under his skin. Even the freezing spray from the sea became bearable after a thick wool coat and some getting used to. The dementors, no matter how often he had been around them, were like a gas. They seeped through the dark cracks of the prison and entered the body like air–invisible and without invitation.

Penn focused on the case at hand. That's what he always did when he was forced to be anywhere near the dementors. The dementors, of course, never really extended their effect near Ministry officials, but Penn always found himself with goose pimples on his arms and his hair always stood on end on the back of his neck. It had been a very long time since he actually had to _speak _with the dementors–if you could call it speaking, that is. The dementors had no known spoken language, and communicated in emotions and images they sucked from the prisoners around them. It was unnerving to suddenly hear Black's raspy voice in his head–it was like the memory was his own, the way it surfaced to his mind.

_He's at Hogwarts... He's at Hogwarts... _

"Right," said Penn distractedly. "Well, we're going to need to take a look at Black's cell and see if we can find anything there."

"Of course," said the Warden. "Right this way," he said, beckoning them down a narrow, dark corridor.

As they made their way through the prison, climbing cold stairwells and passing through dim corridors, Penn couldn't help but look at the cells around them. The first few floors housed prisoners that merely muttered to themselves, but as they climbed higher and deeper into the prison, the inmates seemed to become more hysterical and disconnected with reality. They would shriek, cackle, sob, and shout things Penn didn't understand. It was unnerving.

Frowning, Penn glanced at Crouch, who kept his eyes straight ahead. It was as though he wasn't bothered by, or else simply didn't notice, what was going on around them.

When they reached Black's cell, the Warden unlocked the door with a heavy set of rusted keys. Penn squinted in the darkness as the door creaked open in protest. Crouch pulled out his wand and cast a light overhead, illuminating the dark cell and causing the shadows to retreat sharply into the corners.

The cell was bare except for a moth-eaten mat that took up most of the floor space and a broken sink half-hanging from the stone wall. Mildew glistened on the damp walls in the bright light.

Penn took a step forward, pulling a notebook out of his coat pocket. He peered towards the ceiling, where a narrow window sat ten feet off the ground.

"Was the door still closed when you found it empty?" Crouch asked.

"And locked as well," the Warden replied.

"Well, there's no way he made it through that window," said Penn, pointing to the small hole with his pen. "If he could even reach it, there's no way a man could climb through."

Fudge snorted. "Not unless Black can transform into a little bird," he said from the corridor.

"So that leaves the door," said Crouch, glancing at Penn before turning back to the Warden.

"The door is only opened when the dementors come to bring food," he said calmly.

"Would Black have been able to slip past the dementors?" Crouch asked.

Penn thought that was outrageous, but waited to hear the Warden's answer anyway.

"If he had, it would be unheard of," continued the Warden. "Dementors drain a wizard of his powers. Had Black even managed to get past the one at his door, there are hundreds more blocking his path to the gates."

"Is it likely he had outside help, then?" Penn asked, scratching behind his ear with his pen tip. "Other Death Eaters who are still active?"

The Warden shook his head, sighing. "If there was someone–anyone–trying to come onto the island, we would know immediately. There is more than water and walls blocking the entrance to this prison. This appears to be entirely Black's own doing."

Fudge threw up his hands in frustration. "Great."

Penn turned to the Warden. "Thank you for your time. We'll contact you at your office if we have any further questions."

* * *

By midday, Penn was back at his desk, having just given orders to have the coastlines searched, with warnings given to nearby countries to be on the look-out. Boats were ordered to comb the sea, looking for any traces of Black. Coastal cities were alerted, and a special midday-edition of the _Daily Prophet _was printed in a matter of hours and was ordered to be distributed just ten minutes ago in every shop, pub, restaurant, and office. Penn had ordered his secretaries to make sure any and all alarmed incoming calls be redirected elsewhere. It was only a matter of time before a frightened public came to the Ministry in an uproar, demanding to know how Black got out, if he was found yet, and so on.

"What should we tell them?" asked his head secretary.

Penn sighed. "Tell them," he said slowly. "That the Ministry is doing everything in its power to make sure Black is apprehended immediately. Tell them that under no circumstances should anyone attempt to search for or capture Black themselves, and that they ought to stay on the look-out and call the hotline number with any information they may have."

It was a true enough answer, but mostly empty. In truth, there was nothing Penn could tell the public. Granted Fudge was the one mostly in charge of the public appearances, but Fudge couldn't be trusted to disguise an honest answer. He might say Black is a madman who escaped by clawing his way out of the walls, and will go around on a mass killing spree. He might say the Ministry already had several leads on Black to assuage the public's fears, when really the Ministry was just as clueless as anyone else. The trick was to tell the public as little as possible in as many words as possible.

Penn sighed as he set down his mug of tasteless and slightly lukewarm coffee. He sighed, looking out the windows of his office into the vicinity below, which was teeming with Aurors. He sat there silently for a moment, then suddenly stood up, grabbed a file from off his desk, and headed down the stairs into the open.

"Kingsley, Warren, Parrott," he called, making his way over to a corner of the office adorned in a huge map of the UK next to a slightly smaller one of the globe. A little red pin was pressed into the spot that marked the tiny island prison, but the map was otherwise bare. Penn reached out towards a large whiteboard, and taped a single sheet of paper to its surface. Next to it were two photographs of Black: one taken when he had been arrested, and another, earlier photo of him from about a year before Voldemort's fall.

"I have a list of all living relatives and close friends of Black's, and I want Kingsley to designate a team and visit each one personally—I don't want any fire-calling nonsense; Black could be hiding in the other room without anyone knowing. Black hasn't been in contact with any of these people since his arrest, as far as we know, but criminals like familiarity—Black isn't going to go anywhere random, he's going to find somewhere safe to lay low for a bit. If Black hasn't made any contact with them, leave explicit instructions that if he does in the future, they are not to inform him we've been by. Direct them to call the hotline, and to not, under any circumstances, meet with him."

"What if he shows up at their residence?" Kingsley asked. "These people can't exactly let him in, but if they don't, he might find a way to force himself in. He may have even found a way to acquire a wand by now."

Penn sighed. "We'll set up security wards around their premises. If Black steps one foot over the guard, we'll know about it. And speaking of wands, set up a guard around every wand shop in the UK. Parrott, you get on that, and organize a guard around all modes of wizarding transportation while you're at it. I've already directed Tyndale to enforce security measures in Hogsmede and Diagon Alley. Warren, I want you to send out an order to have Black's bank account and all of his other assets frozen. If there are any attempts to access it, we'll be on it. We can't let Black get help of any kind—the more unprepared he is, the easier it'll be to catch him. We only have a matter of hours to apprehend him before he slips out of our radar."

The Aurors headed off to their respective desks to arrange their teams and carry out Penn's orders. Penn himself merely sighed, turning to stare at the whiteboard, whose mostly blank surface seemed to scoff at the lack of evidence or leads the Ministry had accrued. The map on the wall behind him had a detailed sketch around Hogwarts, with circles radiating out. Hogwarts would be their main point of interest, of course—it was the only lead they had. Penn hoped they caught Black long before then, but the sheer lack of evidence was disconcerting.

"Anything new?" asked a flat voice to his left. Penn turned around to see a tired-looking Crouch.

Penn snorted. "I wish. I've just sent Kingsley to interview friends and family, Parrott's off tightening security, and Warren is on his way to freeze Black's assets. All I've been able to do is preventative measures, and it's driving me insane. I'd rather be chasing Black, not setting up traps over the entire country."

"Well, Fudge is meeting with Dumbledore right now—they're talking security measures on Hogwarts."

Penn grinned humorlessly. "And how's that discussion going?"

Crouch rolled his eyes. "Nothing unexpected. Dumbledore says his wards on the school are enough, but Fudge isn't convinced. He wants dementors stationed around the grounds every minute of every day until we catch Black."

Penn frowned as he poured himself another cup of stale coffee. "Black was able to get past the dementors in Azkaban without a problem. What makes Fudge think they'll stop him from getting past them again, especially if Black has a significantly higher chance of having a few more tricks up his sleeve?"

Crouch merely sighed, shaking his head slightly. "It's more of a sign to the public, really. He's trying to show that the Ministry is doing everything and then some, and going so far as to guard the school with dementors ought to prevent a few Howler's from making it to Fudge's desk."

Penn picked up the bitter tone in Crouch's voice whenever he mentioned the Minister's name. It seemed he was not the only one unhappy with Fudge's method of solving the crisis.

"I told him that, of course," Crouch continued. "But he says assuaging the public is half the battle."

Penn was sure Crouch wasn't convinced of that. As he thought about it, he found he wasn't, either.

"Well, keep me updated on anything useful you find," said Crouch, picking up his mug of coffee and turning away. "I've got about three dozen international high-alert reports to write and deliver before the day's end."

* * *

Sirius managed to cover a considerable distance by the time night fell. While he was exhausted, he knew he had to press on. The Ministry was bound to have set up countless traps before the news of his escape had even reached the papers.

He knew he had to get to Hogwarts, to where Peter would be.

_And Harry._

Sirius hesitated in his dog form. Once he got to Hogwarts, being able to see Harry would be almost impossible. Getting onto the Hogwarts grounds alone would probably be impossible. He didn't have to be at the school until another month or so–he had time to find Harry, to see him just once before focusing on the hunt for Peter.

Sirius came to a complete halt in the middle of the street, considering his options. He knew he should really try to get to Hogwarts as soon as possible, as it was difficult to say how long it would take to get past the school's security measures. But that could mean weeks or months without even catching a glimpse of Harry.

It was reckless, there was no question about that. But Harry was the whole reason Sirius broke out, and if he could see him just once...

Sirius turned around, and tore off running down the dark and empty street.


	3. Knockturn Alley

Chapter three:

Penn tapped his quill impatiently as Warren spoke. Frustration was welling up inside him, and he was ready to explode.

"Something about 'The Ministry has no business interfering in a private sector,'" Warren said in distaste. "They aren't refusing to cooperate, but they're making it extremely difficult. The one I spoke to–Ragnok, or some rubbish–says that they'll freeze Black's account as soon as we find documentation that allows the Ministry to make that kind of request."

Penn stared at Warren incredulously. "And these goblins know we're talking about_ Sirius Black, _right? The man who would gladly kill us all to bring You-Know-Who back?"

Warren sighed, shrugging. "I've got a team of interns looking into it right now, but it looks like Black can still access his Gringott's account so long as he doesn't get caught when he casually strolls into a bank."

Penn threw up his hands in frustration.

There came an abrupt knock on the door, and Crouch poked his head inside. "Penn, a word?"

Penn nodded once at Warren, and the two men took their leave of Penn's office. Warren went back downstairs to the noisy crowd of Aurors, and Penn followed Crouch down the hall towards the lift.

"Fudge wants a word with you concerning security around Potter," said Crouch flatly, leading the way. "He's adamant about dementors being stationed around Hogwarts, but there's still the problem of what to do while Potter's staying in Surrey. Not to mention the international crisis," he added darkly. "They all want security from Black, and half of them expect us to provide it."

Penn rubbed his eyes. He hadn't slept at all the night before, having spent most of it at the Ministry, chasing leads that ended in nothing. "I do find it important to protect Harry Potter, given that our evidence suggests he's Black's target, but shouldn't our priority be capturing Black?"

Crouch sighed as the grilles to the lift slid open. "Tell Fudge that. 'If we can't capture Black, then the public at least needs to know we're protecting the Boy-Who-Lived.'" He shook his head.

Penn looked at Crouch sideways for a moment, but didn't say anything. He could tell this wasn't how Crouch would handle the crisis had he been elected Minister, and was sure the man wasn't happy about Fudge's tactics. Penn did, however, find it rather annoying that Crouch had to make his displeasure so well-known.

Crouch and Penn made their way up to the Minister's office in silence, brushing aside other Ministry workers who heckled them for information on Black. Despite working in completely unrelated departments, everyone wore the same tired and fearful expression. When they reached Fudge's office, Crouch rapped sharply on the door.

"Er–come in," Fudge called distractedly from the other side.

Penn and Crouch entered to find a flustered Fudge sitting at his desk with Dumbledore seated across from him.

"Ah, yes, Barty," said Fudge, brightening. "Good, you've grabbed Albert–I need a word with both of you."

With a wave of his wand, two cushy chairs appeared out of nowhere. Penn sat down tiredly, waiting for Fudge, Crouch, and Dumbledore to all start disagreeing with each other.

"We have decided to station dementors around Hogwarts, and they will patrol the local areas," said Fudge matter-of-factly. Penn glanced at Dumbledore, who was examining a loose thread on the front of his robe with a somewhat stony expression. "It should be sufficient security for the school and for the local villagers."

Crouch frowned. "But if Black got past the dementors in Azkaban, what's stopping him from getting past them at Hogwarts?"

"Hogwarts has other means of protection," said Dumbledore. "Old charms set in place from the school's creation, and a few of my own invention. Hogwarts should be very safe."

Crouch's frown deepened. "Then why the dementors? We're scant on Aurors–we could use them to help _find _Black–"

"Hogwarts itself is protected, not the surrounding area," said Fudge heavily. "If Black is indeed after Harry Potter, then the locals of Hogsmede are at a higher risk of attack. They will also need protection."

"From Black," said Crouch flatly. "Using dementors."

Penn felt the corners of his mouth twitch.

Fudge placed his palms flat on his desk and then folded them again. "Unless you have fifty aurors I might borrow, it will have to be dementors," said Fudge, speaking as though he was talking to an insolent child who just wasn't getting it. "Anyway, I've already made the arrangements. What I've called you two here for is to talk security measures–particularly on Potter while he remains with his aunt and uncle."

"Muggles, aren't they?" Penn asked.

"Yes," said Fudge. "And ill-equipped to deal with Black should he find them."

"As long as Harry remains at his aunt and uncle's house, there is no reason he should be in immediate danger," said Dumbledore. "Black wouldn't be able to sneak into Little Whinging with murderous intentions and go unnoticed. I already have old contacts in place, keeping an eye on Harry as an extra precaution."

"And you think that is sufficient?" Fudge asked doubtfully.

"You cannot station dementors in a muggle village, Cornelius," said Dumbledore. Something about his tone suggested that Fudge had already tried investigating that option.

Fudge turned towards Penn. "What is your situation on the ground? Could we set up a guard in Little Whinging?"

"Maybe if you enlisted someone from housekeeping," said Penn, adjusting in his seat. "Like Barty said, we're on short supply of Aurors as it is, chasing after the hundreds of leads we receive daily. Last I heard, everyone from Muggle Relations to Magical Games and Sports is working overtime."

"Not to mention everyone in my own department is dealing with mainland Europe. They're furious we 'let' Black escape, and are demanding our help in protecting their borders," added Crouch. "If Hogwarts is safe, then there's no need to station dementors there. They would be better suited to guarding the shores to prevent Black from escaping to a country that wouldn't extradite him."

"Our first priority is Potter," said Fudge firmly. "That is the one thing we know about Black's motives."

"Black wouldn't know where to find Harry outside of Hogwarts," said Dumbledore firmly. "He will be safe in Little Whinging."

Penn looked at Dumbledore. It seemed there was something the man wasn't telling the rest of them–how would Black's sheer ignorance of Potter's exact location be protection enough?

He didn't argue the point, however. Let Dumbledore do whatever it is he had planned–Penn had more pressing matters to think about.

Fudge, however, looked disappointed. "But surely–"

"There are no Aurors to spare," interrupted Crouch. "And I'm sure a squad of wizards popping in and out of a muggle village would capture Black's attention sooner or later."

Fudge sighed, unhappy. He leaned back in his chair, then said to Crouch, "What does the situation on the other side look like?"

Crouch gave a half-shrug. "All the coastal countries are in an uproar, especially Denmark and Norway–they're convinced Black swam to their side of the North Sea. Don't even get me started on what France has to say of the matter."

Fudge sighed again. "Well," he said distractedly. "Let us hope we capture Black before the week's end."

* * *

Sirius never did make it to Little Whinging.

He had decided to stop in London first, and try to find a way to sneak into a wizarding shop and procure a wand. He considered Ollivander's for the briefest of moments, but Sirius was sure that the Ministry had some kind of security measure on the place. That would leave second-hand shops. The wand wouldn't be as predictable, or as obedient, but at least it would be a wand.

For a moment he felt a little guilty about breaking into some unfortunate shop and stealing, but then Sirius remembered that everyone thought he was a murderer. What did it matter if theft charges were added against him?

By the time Sirius reached Diagon Alley, he hesitated. He wasn't sure what to expect, now that news of his escape had no doubt flooded the papers. Sirius knew that no one would recognize him in his dog form, but he couldn't help but feel like he was doing something incredibly stupid by strolling into the heart of a wizarding neighborhood.

Given the late hour, the streets were completely bare. Oil lamps lit the pavement every few meters, casting tall shadows that would be easy to hide in should the need arise.

Sirius made his way hesitantly down the empty streets, staying in the shadows as much as possible. After a few minutes he heard a rubbish bin tip over and he froze, pressing himself up against a wall. When nothing more alarming than a few hungry rats running by appeared for several long minutes, Sirius crept back out of the shadows, feeling a little stupid at his reaction. When he reached the street and rounded a corner, however, Sirius stopped dead in his tracks.

It was him. There were posters of him everywhere. In windows, on doors, plastered to walls, and in the form of scattered pamphlets. Below the picture of him was a notice and a special Ministry hotline number, directing people to call immediately if they had any information on Black.

Once the initial shock of seeing his face everywhere wore off, Sirius was able to relax and remind himself that no one would recognize him in his dog form.

Sirius hurried through the dark streets without further incident, and felt a strange sense of security when he finally reached Knockturn Alley. At least here, the witches and wizards were less keen to interact with the Ministry, no matter the circumstances.

It didn't take long to find the shop Sirius had been thinking about. He remembered passing it all the time as a kid. His parents thought it was a "dirty shop run by a penniless scoundrel," but it sold the sort of items thieves and every-day criminals might find useful.

Breaking in without a wand in his dog form was, of course, the tricky part.

Sirius made his way to the alley on the side of the shop, searching in the darkness for a grimy window. As soon as he spotted one, Sirius took a deep breath and looked around him once more. Certain that no one could see him–if there were even people mulling the streets in the middle of the night–Sirius changed back into his human form.

Sirius immediately went to work prying the pins out of the hinges on the window. It was difficult work, as the rust and grime practically melted the pins in place. Eventually he was able to free one, and used it to pry out the other. When this was done, Sirius was able to slide the window pane out of its rotten frame and slip inside the shop's basement.

Navigating the unfamiliar room in total darkness was both difficult and annoying. Twice Sirius almost tripped over strange objects on the floor, and didn't find the stairs to the upper floor until he walked right into them.

The main floor of the shop wasn't in much better state. The shelves were arranged in a strange sort of maze, making it difficult for Sirius to figure out where he was. He didn't dare turn on a light, however, as that was guaranteed to attract attention.

With each minute that passed, Sirius' heart rate increased. It made him nervous to spend so much time in the wizarding shop, but he had to get a wand somehow. Finally, after nearly twenty excruciating minutes, Sirius found a rack in the back of the shop, displaying an assortment of wands. Most were aged and well-worn, with chips and scratches carved into the wood. Sirius was trying out the third one when a light near the entryway suddenly switched on.

Sirius reacted so fast he was later surprised that he hadn't knocked anything over. He transformed back into his dog from, and crept behind an enormous wardrobe that stood against an equally grimy trunk. He pressed himself as far back and as low to the floor as he could, hardly daring to breathe.

At the front of the shop, the door opened and voices muttered in the dim lighting.

"...returned, you know," said a hoarse voice in the darkness.

"Yeah, and what good would that do us?" countered a second.

"Because," the man hissed, lowering his voice to a whisper. "When the Dark Lord finds out that we were loyal enough to bring him back, he's bound to reward us!"

Sirius froze for a moment, then slowly crept forward a few inches. The two wizards, dressed in clothes too heavy and dark for the weather, were leaning against the front counter. One of them had a long scar running down the side of his face.

"And how do you expect to do that?" countered the second. "Some magic potion or whatever, to just bring him back from the dead?"

"You know as well as I do that he's not dead. Even Malfoy–"

The second man sniggered. "Malfoy?" he wheezed. "That turn-coat who went and crawled back to the Ministry? What's he got to do with any of this?"

"Well, traitors like him aren't going to want the Dark Lord back, now are they?" said the first man, offhandedly examining a few nearby objects. "They know there's a way to bring the Dark Lord back, but they won't do it because they went and crawled back to the Ministry."

The man behind the counter, the one with the scar, looked at his partner in amused befuddlement as he flipped another light switch, casting the shop in a dim yellow light. "And you think what–bringing Him back will get revenge on people like Malfoy?"

The other man disappeared behind some kind of display, out of Sirius' line of sight. "Do you like living like this? Lying low and living off of a meager income while mudbloods and traitors run around, having a good time? Besides, you know as well as I do that it's bound to happen sooner or later. Someone is going to get tired of hiding and find a way to bring the Dark Lord back. It's just a matter of who gets to Potter first–"

Sirius felt the blood in his veins freeze.

"And what are you going to do with him?" drawled the other wizard, unconvinced. "Do you really believe that killing the boy will bring the Dark Lord back?"

"I have a contact who, let us say, is privy to some information on how to return the Dark Lord to a body," said the other man. Sirius noticed that his voice was growing louder, which meant that the man was making his way towards where Sirius crouched, hidden. "I won't disclose full details, but Potter is a necessary element, yes."

The wizard with the scar pretended to consider him. "Oh, right. The troubles with locating the Dark Lord aside, how exactly are we supposed to get to Potter? Isn't he under Dumbledore's protection?"

"Do you not think we haven't thought any of this out, Crowley? I'm hardly going to disclose full details to anyone who would just ask," the wizard snapped. Sirius heard his footsteps stop just meters away from where he hid. "So what is it going to be? Are you in or out?"

Crowley sighed. "If I agree, what is it that you're needing from me?"

"I need you to keep an eye out for a certain book," said the other man, briefly examining the wand rack Sirius had just stolen from moments before. He paused, then walked back towards the front of the shop. Sirius could see the man reach into his pocket and pull a slip of paper out, handing it to the wizard named Crowley. "And," he continued as Crowley examined the name written on the piece of parchment. "I do expect your compliance in providing a bit of a haven here, like the old days. I don't reckon we can count on that old fool Borgin–he's too much in league with people like Malfoy. You should be expecting a visitor very shortly."

Crowley looked back at his partner, whose face Sirius couldn't see. "You sure this will work?"

The man reached into his pocket and dropped a pouch of gold on the counter between them. He threw on his cloak, and silently withdrew from the shop without a backwards glance.

Crowley watched him leave through the windows, then turned to the gold on the counter. He peeked inside, and–apparently satisfied–pocketed it and proceeded to lock up his shop, turning off the lights on his way out.

Sirius forced himself to lay hidden for several minutes after he heard the front door shut. When he was satisfied Crowley wasn't going to pop back in, he raced out from behind the mirror and back downstairs. He was in such a hurry to get out of London that he nearly forgot to place the window back in its frame.

Sirius tore off running, but then paused, a million thoughts racing through his mind. If ex-Death Eaters were already plotting to return Voldemort to power, then it was only a matter of time before Peter Pettigrew caught wind of it. And because he was perfectly positioned to hand Harry over, Peter would undoubtedly receive all the help he needed to do so.

Sirius had hoped to sneak into Hogwarts and simply kill Peter, but it looked like there were far more enemies to contend with. He needed to stop them, but how? The old members of the Order and the Ministry would lock him back up before he even got one word out. Sirius doubted whether even Remus or Dumbledore would believe him.

_Traitors like Malfoy aren't going to want the Dark Lord back._

Sirius was suddenly hit with an idea. It was insane, dangerous, and probably hopeless, but it was his best chance if he was going to protect Harry.

Sirius turned around, back towards Knockturn Alley, and crept up on an unsuspecting Crowley walking in the other direction.


	4. Crowley Confunded

Chapter four:

Even after he had reached Crowley, Sirius wasn't sure what he was going to do. All he knew was that he needed to drag Crowley off to a quiet location where they were unlikely to be seen. Sirius would have to wing it from there.

Sirius slipped into a dark alley before transforming back into a man, waiting quietly, his heart pounding furiously against his chest. He could feel his instincts sounding an alarm, telling him to run the other direction, but Sirius needed to do this. He needed to protect Harry.

After what felt like a lifetime, Crowley finally walked past the mouth of the alleyway, and Sirius moved.

A quick spell was all it took to immobilize Crowley, rendering him helpless and unable to fight back. Sirius grabbed the top of Crowley's jacket and dragged him into the man's own shop. Sirius dropped him on the floor unceremoniously, then barricaded the doors and windows before flipping on the lights.

Crowley's look of paralyzed fear almost made Sirius hesitate. It was strange to have that kind of expression directed at him. Then Sirius remembered that Crowley thought he was Voldemort's right-hand man, and could use Crowley's terror to his advantage. He would be a far more willing aid if he believed Sirius was second-in-command to Lord Voldemort.

Sirius looked down at Crowley for a moment. With a flick of his wand, all the objects in the terrified wizard's pockets zoomed out. Sirius was momentarily astonished at how much the stolen wand obeyed, but quickly brushed it off as he tossed Crowley's wand aside and picked up a folded slip of parchment. Slowly, he straightened up and looked at the title, which was in a strange language he didn't recognize.

Sirius turned back to Crowley.

"I happened to overhear your little conversation earlier." Sirius almost winced at how hoarse his voice sounded.

Crowley stared up at him from the floor with wide, terrified eyes.

Sirius shook his head. "Do you really think Voldemort is going to reward you?" he asked skeptically. Crowley winced at the use of the name. "Do you think that your friend from earlier is going to share any of the glory with you? I wouldn't be surprised if he was just using you as a scapegoat in case something went wrong."

Sirius pocketed the paper, slowly pacing around Crowley's immobilized form. He was running on pure adrenaline, and making everything up as he went. Sirius bent down, so that he was only a foot from Crowley. "That fool has no idea where Voldemort is. He's playing with people who do. I know his type," he added, chuckling darkly. "And he's going to use _you _as a shield when the real Death Eaters find out what he's up to."

Sirius straightened, examining the shop with pretend curiosity. He turned back to Crowley, then said, "Did you want to add something?"

With a wave of his wand, Crowley's limbs sprang to life.

"Black!" he gasped, scrambling backwards several inches.

"In the flesh," drawled Sirius, sounding uncannily like Lucius Malfoy, folding his arms across his chest.

"You–you—"

"You're going to help me, Crowley," said Sirius quietly. "Can you do that for me?"

Crowley's mouth opened and closed silently. It seemed he was too frightened to speak.

"Good. I like silence in a man," Sirius noted, clapping Crowley on the shoulder. Crowley winced as though he had been electrocuted. "When this book comes in, you're not going to tell your friend about it. You're going to hide it, because I'm going to pick it up instead. And no one's going to know about it, all right? Your secret is safe with me."

"Y-y-ye-yes," Crowley stuttered.

"Good," Sirius said, offering Crowley a small smile. Then he added darkly, "And don't think I won't know if you try turning on me, Crowley. I'm sure your friend is a formidable enemy, but I assure you–you don't want to be mine."

Crowley merely nodded, unable to form words.

Sirius held out his hand. "Do we have a deal?"

Crowley looked from Sirius' hand and back to his face, as though anticipating some kind of trick. When he could sense none, Crowley reached out a shaking hand of his own.

Sirius, struck with another idea, pointed the tip of his wand at their clasped hands. A pale ribbon of smoke wrapped itself around their hands, then dissipated.

"W-what did you d-d-do?" Crowley stammered when Sirius let go, examining his hand as though expecting to find traces of a curse or injury.

"Well, I had to be sure you wouldn't _break _your vow," lied Sirius offhandedly.

Crowley's eyes widened in fear.

Sirius couldn't help but chuckle. He had merely emitted smoke from his wand, nothing more. Sirius knew it was an inappropriate response to snigger, but he was relieved and amazed at how easily he was able to play along with the idea of being Voldemort's supporter. James would have gotten a kick out–

Sirius stopped himself from finishing that thought. The holes in his chest ached, and the situation became entirely unamusing again.

Crowley seemed to misinterpret Sirius'strange response, for his look of fear was now mingled with alarm.

_Good, _thought Sirius flatly. If everyone thought he was insane as well as dangerous, he could probably get away with more before anyone suspected him.

"Now, this is nothing personal, Crowley," Sirius continued quietly. "But I'm going to have to erase a few of your memories. I can't have you telling anyone that I've been by. Or have your face tell them, rather," he added, raising his wand. "_Obliviate!"_

Crowley's fearful expression went blank, then slowly confused. He looked at Sirius, frowning slightly.

"Remember your vow, Crowley," Sirius said before stunning him.

Crowley fell to a crumpled heap on the floor. Sirius sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair as he stared at the unconscious man. His heart was beating furiously against his chest. Sirius couldn't believe what he had just done, and was even more amazed that he had gotten away with it.

Sirius bent down and hastily removed Crowley's clothing, replacing it with his own. The clothes didn't exactly fit, and they were certainly well-worn, but they were a significant improvement from prison robes. Sirius then moved to the back of the shop, towards the wardrobe he had hidden behind earlier. With some difficulty, he yanked open the doors. Inside, as he had hoped, was a grimy mirror.

Sirius knew that his appearance had changed significantly over the twelve years in Azkaban, and tried not to focus on it. Instead, he worked on cutting off the long, matted locks of hair.

If he was going to appeal to Lucius Malfoy, then he needed to look somewhat sane.

* * *

Harry lay beneath the hydrangea bushes, the only shady part of the garden, listening to the evening news through the open kitchen window.

"_...public is warned not to approach Black, as he is considered armed and dangerous. If you have any information that may aid in the investigation, please call..."_

The summer had passed uneventfully. Harry spent as little time as possible inside. He would rather brave the dry heat in exchange for minimal contact with the Dursleys, who had only taken him back reluctantly.

The bars in Harry's window and the lock on his door had been removed, perhaps out of fear when Harry explained that it was the half-giant Hagrid who sent him birthday cake. Harry was allowed to keep his trunk in his room, so long as none of the Dursleys ever caught sight of any of the objects inside. This left Harry doing his homework by flashlight in the middle of the night.

Aunt Marge, Vernon's pit bull-loving sister, had arrived the previous morning, which gave Harry even more incentive to stay out of the house. Uncle Vernon had agreed to sign Harry's permission slip on the condition that he "behaved himself" during Marge's stay, and Harry didn't trust himself to risk interacting with the woman more than was absolutely necessary.

To pass the time, Harry would read his letters from Ron, Hermione, and Hagrid, counting down the days until he could return to Hogwarts. Ron was due to return from a trip to Egypt with his family any day now. Ron's father, Arthur Weasley, had won a considerable amount of gold in a Ministry lottery, and the family decided to take a trip to Egypt to visit Ron's older brother, Bill. Ron's letters were lengthy and colorful, detailing their trip to the pyramids, and how the twins had tried to shut Percy in one. Included in the letters were photographs, whose occupants bustled about and waved.

It wasn't long, however, when Aunt Petunia called that dinner was ready. Harry unstuck himself from the hot ground, changing his soiled shirt into the clean one he had brought along.

Like the night before, Harry was careful to keep his eyes on his own plate, neutrally agreeing with everything Aunt Marge asked.

"Do they use the cane at St. Brutus', boy?" she barked, holding out her wine glass. "Some more nosh, Petunia, dear."

Harry looked up. Uncle Vernon nodded from behind Marge.

"Yes," he said quickly.

"Good," announced Marge. "I won't have this namby-pamby, wishy-washy nonsense about not beating people who deserve it. Are you beaten often?"

"What? Oh—yeah, yeah I've been beaten loads of times," said Harry, nodding.

Marge stared at him with narrowed eyes for a moment, then seemed to accept his answer. She turned to Dudley, and suddenly her tone was sickeningly sweet. "And what about you, Duddy-Dums? How is school?"

"Fine," offered Dudley, shrugging, as he took another enormous bite.

"He's a fine boy, Vernon," Marge noted, nodding towards her brother. "Comes from good parents. Not like him over there, with his skinny legs and trouble-maker's mind," she added. Harry forced himself to ignore her.

"Now, I'm not saying anything against you, Petunia, dear," Marge continued, clasping an enormous hand on Petunia's bony shoulder. "But your sister, and the scoundrel she ran off with–were they even married when they had you?" She glared at Harry as she asked the last part.

"Yeah," said Harry flatly, not looking up.

Marge snorted in disbelief. "And a layabout, I'm sure. What did he do, Petunia?"

Petunia, who hated talking about her sister and anything to do with her, merely pulled a face. "Nothing. Didn't work."

"And a drunk, too, no doubt?" she asked, her face reddening with each sip of wine.

"My dad wasn't a drunk," Harry snapped.

The table went silent for the briefest of moments.

"You think you know everything, do you? No, boy, he was a drunk," said Marge. "You wouldn't know that because the lazy bum went and got himself killed—probably why that car wreck happened," she added to no one in particular, leaning back in her chair.

Harry opened his mouth to reply angrily, but he caught Uncle Vernon's warning look. Harry closed his mouth again, glaring.

Marge set her plate down on the floor, and one of the dogs began lapping up the scraps, much to Aunt Petunia's mortification.

"Well, how about desert?" Uncle Vernon suggested, his voice unusually pleasant. He stood up to fetch the lemon cream pie in the kitchen, and gave Harry a warning look. "Maybe you ought to get upstairs and work on that summer homework of yours."

Harry didn't argue; instead, he leapt at the chance to be away from the table and everyone around it. Aunt Marge didn't protest either, which allowed Harry to slip upstairs quietly. Once there, Harry resisted the urge to slam his door loudly.

Harry pulled out his desk chair roughly and sat down, hastily scribbling notes to both Ron and Hermione, begging them to come up with a solution to get Harry out of Privet Drive as soon as possible. He opened Hedwig's cage, tying each of the letters to her feet. Hedwig leapt onto the windowsill happily, stretching her wings before taking flight and disappearing in the night.

"At least one of us can get out of here," Harry said gloomily. He cast a dark look around his bedroom, then pulled his Transfiguration textbook towards him. The homework was hardly exciting, but it reminded Harry that he belonged in a far different world, a world he would return to very soon.

Harry awoke very early the next morning to Hedwig, who had nibbled his fingers. Harry jerked instinctively, causing Hedwig to flutter to the top of the wardrobe, where she gazed reproachfully at Harry.

Groggily Harry sat up, peering down at the letter Hedwig had dropped on top of the blankets. Harry grabbed his glasses and rubbed his eyes, trying to make out the hastily-scribbled writing.

_Harry–_

_Just got back from Egypt. We're going to pick you up next week. I have loads to tell you. Dunno why, but Dad says to stay at your Aunt and Uncle's place until we get you._

_Ron_

Well, that was a relief, at least. Harry was so pleased to be leaving the Dursleys that he didn't question why Mr. Weasley didn't want him leaving the that he wasn't going to get any more sleep, Harry threw off his covers and got dressed.

One more week. He only had one more week with the Dursleys, and then he would be free of them for a whole year.


	5. Family Reunion

Chapter five:

The next several days were a blur. Moving around was significantly easier with a wand, even if it was reluctant to obey Sirius' commands. By the end of the week, Sirius had managed to procure a decent amount of gold, an improved set of clothes, and a few nights' rest after breaking into an empty summer home.

The only way Sirius was able to keep track of time was the constant rising and setting of the sun; he was so used to the perpetual darkness in Azkaban that hours and minutes meant nothing. He had spent those few days stalling, trying to come up with the best plan to carry out what he had just started. In truth, he wasn't entirely sure what he had intended to do that night in Knockturn Alley. Now Sirius had no choice but to find a way to get that book–whatever it was–and destroy it.

But would that be enough? Surely there were other ways to bring Voldemort back, and the Death Eaters would be searching for one. He would have to find a way to obtain their information and put a stop to it. Sirius had an idea of how to do it, but wasn't sure it would work. But without help, he had no other options.

It was painful to be sitting and waiting when he knew Harry was in danger while Wormtail was at Hogwarts, but the bigger threat was the Death Eaters looking for Voldemort. Sirius had to stop them first, and then he had to get Wormtail away from Harry. He would worry about what to do afterwards when that time came.

Still completely unsure of what he was doing, Sirius walked up to the gate of Malfoy Manor a week after the events in Knockturn Alley. He sighed heavily for a moment, trying to prepare himself for what was to come. Sirius knew what he was going to tell Malfoy, and the words were believable enough—they were, after all, true for the most part. He just needed to make sure he could get Malfoy on his side without the man even suspecting it.

"The house isn't open for visitors, sir!" came a shrill voice from somewhere to the right. Sirius turned sharply to see a small speaker protruding from the brick wall. "Please leave now, and have a nice day, sir!"

Sirius rolled his eyes and cleared his throat. His voice was still rough with disuse, but it was improving after practicing his speech aloud for nights on end. "I have an appointment with the Master of the house," he said, remembering the stupid phrases his family had set up for Narcissa and Lucius when they had married. The phrase was mostly empty—the only meaning it signified was that the unknown visitor wasn't a muggle.

There was a pause.

"The Master is in the back garden, sir, and is unavailable!"

"Well, do you mind fetching him for me? I can wait in the tea parlor."

Sirius could practically see the House-Elf hesitating on the other end, unsure if it was worse to bother Malfoy or keep a guest waiting outside.

Finally there was a buzz and a heavy click, and the gates opened. Sirius headed up the brick lane, which wound up a small hill between hundreds of rose bushes and neatly-trimmed hedges. In the distance, he could hear a sprinkler watering the immaculate lawn. Sirius knew what he was doing was extremely risky, and Malfoy was more likely than not to turn on him. Still, he had to try.

He reached the front entry, which was marked by an enormous fountain in the middle of the driveway. Stepping onto the front entryway, he reached out to knock on the huge painted door when it suddenly opened, revealing a small, rather disheveled-looking House-Elf.

"Master is on his way," he said, stepping back to let Sirius enter. "May I take your name, sir? Master likes to know who is coming."

Before Sirius could answer, there were footsteps coming from down the hall. They both turned to see an annoyed-looking Lucius Malfoy, dressed in expensive-looking hunting clothes.

He stopped when he reached the entrance to the parlor, and eyed Sirius distastefully. "I figured it was you," he said, removing his suede gloves. "No one has used that phrase in over ten years."

"Didn't anyone tell you it's dangerous to let escaped criminals into your house?" Sirius asked, placing his hands in his pockets.

Malfoy's eyes narrowed slightly as he took in Sirius' appearance, now almost unrecognizable from the photograph plastering papers and shop windows. "We both know you're not dangerous."

"Oh, I don't know about that," said Sirius conversationally. "The Ministry seems to disagree. Not only have they set up traps for me everywhere, but they've gone as far as to freeze my bank account and all my assets. I got around that, of course, but it was still annoying to have to go through so much effort to adopt a change of clothes."

"Armani," said Malfoy knowingly, glancing once at the suit Sirius was wearing.

"Little more comfortable than prison robes," said Sirius, casually adjusting his shirt sleeves. "Now, if you'd be so kind, I'd like a word."

"Why should I let you into my house, Black?" Malfoy asked sharply. "Tell me why I shouldn't call the Ministry and have them arrest you. Which, by the way," he added, gesturing to the hall behind him. "I'm about to."

Sirius turned to the elf. "Would you be so kind as to prepare a pot of tea? And perhaps a tonic for your Master. He seems a little irritable today—"

"Enough, Black," snapped Malfoy, his composure starting to slip. "What do you want?"

"Is it so much to ask for a simple chat between cousins?" Sirius asked innocently. "We are family, now, Lucius, and I feel like we've never quite gotten on."

"Yes, well, I wonder what may have been the cause for that," said Malfoy bitingly.

"Which is precisely the reason why I'm here," said Sirius slowly, careful to enunciate each word.

Malfoy paused, and Sirius held his breath. He hoped that the not-too-subtle hint in his voice was enough to garner Malfoy's curiosity.

Malfoy's eyes narrowed as he considered Sirius. Then he visibly relaxed, and turned to his House-Elf. "Linny, go bring us some wine from the cellar. Tell the Lady that I am in a meeting, and am not to be disturbed."

"Yes, sir," said the Elf before disappearing.

Malfoy beckoned for Sirius to follow him as he disappeared from the parlor's doorway. Sirius followed him down an enormous hallway, the walls adorned with huge portraits of family members and famous politicians. He opened a door on the left, and stepped back to allow Sirius to enter.

The room was obviously some kind of entertainment room—the windows reached to the ceiling, giving a spectacular view of the gardens outside, and the lake beyond it. A grand piano was nestled in the corner, and an assortment of antique couches and cushions were situated in the middle of the room. Malfoy took a seat, and gestured for Sirius to do the same.

"My curiosity is getting the better of me, so you must tell me," he began conversationally. "Why did you choose to come here, of all places? Why not to your old friends and allies?"

Sirius smiled wryly. "Is it really so surprising?" he asked. "They wouldn't help me," he added softly. His chest tightened at the truthfulness in the words. He sighed, then continued in tones of forced calm, "Besides, it's not a hide-out I'm after. If that were the case, I'd take refuge in the Black summer home–or perhaps I'd have gone somewhere south. I wouldn't stay in England if I wanted to merely hide out for the rest of my life."

"If not a place of refuge, then what are you after?" Malfoy asked, a small smile playing around his lips. Sirius could tell he was enjoying the strangeness of this meeting, and was grateful for it. This is what he had been hoping for. "Not revenge on us, surely."

"Not on you," Sirius repeated carefully. Malfoy stopped, looking at Sirius curiously. In the background, the House-Elf had returned with two glasses of wine and a plate of cheeses. "Then who?" he asked, eyes lighting up slightly. He was definitely interested now, and Sirius would have to choose his words very carefully.

"Oh, I'm not actively seeking anything on any particular person," said Sirius vaguely, taking a sip of the wine the House-Elf had brought. "But if something should happen..." he trailed off, then shrugged. "I suppose you could consider my current objectives purely self-serving," he added vaguely. "We are, after all, family, and I was hoping we might start over."

Malfoy merely watched Sirius silently, clearly trying to make sense of what Sirius was telling him.

"I have something for you," Sirius added suddenly, watching the wine swirl in his glass as he played with it. He turned back to Malfoy, who gazed back in silent expectation. This is what he needed—he had to tell Malfoy as little as possible while keeping him interested at the same time.

"Oh?" Malfoy asked casually, taking another sip.

"Yes," said Sirius, nodding. "And consider it a peace-offering, if you will. A display to show that I am perfectly serious when I say I am looking to rebuild old family ties."

"And what might this be? Information, perhaps?"

Sirius took a sip of wine. "Oh, good guess," he said, making sure his voice sounded pleased.

"And..." Malfoy continued slowly, watching Sirius as he pretended to deliberate. "What might this information concern? Your old friends, perhaps?"

Sirius pulled a face. "Oh, no," he said, shaking his head. "I don't know anything about those people. Nothing that could be of use, at any rate. No, the information I have is a lot more valuable than anything I could tell you about the Order—which, mind you, has long since disbanded." He shrugged.

"All right," said Malfoy, slowly. It was clear he was starting to feel uneasy, both by Sirius' strange behavior and by what Sirius was telling him. Good. "Humor me."

Sirius took another sip, swallowed, then said casually, "Do you know what your old friends are up to?"

Malfoy studied him for a long moment. "What is that?" he asked, his voice a deliberate display of indifference.

"That part's a secret," said Sirius casually, leaning back on the couch, crossing one ankle over his knee. "What I can tell you is that not everyone believes the rumors of Voldemort. I've heard a lot of things in Azkaban."

Malfoy winced ever so slightly at the name, but his face remained impressively passive. "That he's dead, you mean?"

Sirius pointed his finger at Malfoy, nodding. "Right."

Malfoy looked at Sirius expectantly, and was clearly disappointed when he didn't elaborate on his vague, cryptic hints. "And how would you know about anything concerning the Dark Lord's condition?"

"I'm his right-hand man, aren't I?" he asked, quoting the newspaper's headline from that morning. "And being such, I am not authorized to divulge any of his secrets. But think about it... after he disappeared, things went pretty well for you guys, didn't it? Well, most of you," he added as a second-thought. "While the real Death Eaters and their allies were unloading the excuses and the gold, the Ministry was filling up the gaps by arresting people like me," he said, chuckling darkly. "People who had nothing to do with it, but could easily fill in the holes. And that's not very nice."

Sirius paused, glancing at Malfoy's silent expression, then continued in a bitter tone, "And these people—the people who threw me in Azkaban to rot for twelve years—were people I trusted. I thought they were my friends." He forced a humorless laugh. The speech had been prepared well in advance, but it still hurt to say the words. They tore at the holes in his chest, getting snagged on the rough edges. "Yes, well," he said, reverting back to a casual tone. "Let us say that I wasn't too happy, and that I've had a long, long time to think about it.

"Now, back to Voldemort—" he said, waving his hand dismissively and changing directions suddenly. He was amazed at the ease with which the words came. "Some of these people don't think he's dead. I mean, he can't be, can he, if he's been sneaking around Hogwarts for two years." He shrugged. "Well, if that's the case, I don't think he can be too happy with his friends, can he? I mean, how long has he been wandering around the woods, alone?"

Malfoy's face tightened. "Are you saying that someone is looking to return the Dark Lord to power?"

"Oh, I didn't say anything," said Sirius, drinking the last sip of wine. The alcohol was helping calm his nerves, and it made lying so much easier. "I'm just saying I know what it's like to be double-crossed—it's really kind of aggravating, actually. Good thing I've learned to keep my temper in check, right? Otherwise I might go 'round everyone's houses one night." He set his glass down, and glanced at Malfoy, and his tone was suddenly business-like. "So what I'm here for is to help you, er, _prevent _any such circumstances from arising for yourself—that is, if Voldemort's really still around, and if people are really still looking for him, which, you know, is possible. In exchange," he said slowly. "I would like us to be friends."

Malfoy stared at Sirius silently. This was clearly not the price he had been expecting Sirius to lay down.

"Friends," Malfoy repeated, as though confirming the word.

"Yes," said Sirius casually. "Friends. You see, I would like us to start to trust one another. And when we get to that point, we can share secrets—secrets that are pretty important," he added with just enough emphasis. "I'd like for us to be able to help each other out of a tight bind. Let's say, hypothetically, that there are people who are capable of putting you in a rather precarious position."

"Hypothetically, of course," said Malfoy with a humorless smile, clearly thinking about Sirius' cryptic hint of Voldemort.

"Hypothetically," Sirius agreed, nodding. "And that I have a little bit of information concerning this, er, situation. Now, if I were to divulge what I knew to the man in question, how can I be sure that I won't end up burned in the end? You see, when you betray someone," he continued, his voice getting harder as he forced the words out. "You need to have a plan. I'm not particularly prepared to expend all my energies helping someone only to end up in Azkaban for the rest of my life. Hypothetically speaking, of course. I need to know that I have allies who are willing to help me in turn."

Malfoy studied Sirius silently for a long moment, clearly torn. It was obvious he was dying to know the information Sirius had, but he seemed reluctant to form any sort of pact. Sirius could hardly blame him, but he was hoping fear of Voldemort would win over fear of the Ministry.

"And if we're working on the assumption that the Dark Lord may return, what makes you think that I am incapable of preventing it myself? Cut out the middle-man, if you will."

"Because that's a really obvious trail back to you," said Sirius, shrugging. Then he added, "Unless you're actually able to _kill _Voldemort, there's nothing preventing him from figuring out you stood in his way of returning."

Malfoy seemed to consider this. He tapped his fingers lightly on the armrest in thought, frowning slightly. "And how can I ensure that you will keep your word?" he finally asked.

Sirius raised an eyebrow. "Have you missed the big news? I'm the most-wanted man in Britain. If I were to turn on you, you're in a position to send me right back to the Ministry."

This seemed to ease Malfoy's concerns, for his voice took on its usual arrogant tone once more. "Well, I shall have to consider this on my own time," he drawled. "Am I to expect that you'll intrude once more, or shall I try to locate you?"

"I'm going to go on the good faith that you'll accept," said Sirius, standing up. "We'll meet up again some time."

Malfoy remained seated, but his House-Elf Linny came running out of a nearby hall to escort Sirius back to the front door.

Once outside, Sirius checked his watch and disapparated. He would give Malfoy one day to consider the offer. He hoped Malfoy, an opportunistic man, would be too tempted to refuse.


	6. Feel the Tide Turning

Chapter six:

Penn awoke with a start as his office door opened suddenly.

"We've got a situation in—you all right?" said Kingsley, catching sight of his boss.

"Er–yes, just fell asleep, I suppose," said Penn, peeling a piece of parchment off the side of his face. "What's going on?"

"Well, it appears Harry Potter has run away from his muggle home," said Kingsley slowly, watching Penn for his reaction.

Penn stared at Kingsley wordlessly for a moment, digesting the information.

"The Knight Bus picked up the boy before any harm could come to him," Kingsley continued. "He's now currently here in London, at the Leaky Cauldron. Arthur Weasley from the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office is keeping an eye on the boy. His son's a friend of Potter's."

Penn ran his fingers through his hair distractedly. "Let me guess–there's more?"

"Fudge is adamant about staging an auror guard around Potter at all times," Kingsley said. "Black is less likely to stick out in Diagon Alley than a muggle village."

Penn flexed and unflexed his fists in agitation, then finally settled them on his desk in forced calm. He cleared his throat. "And if I said no? That we don't have Aurors to spare?"

Kingsley sighed. "He says that if you were to refuse, that it's an order and not a request."

"All right, fine," said Penn, rolling his eyes. Fudge could be so obtuse. "I can spare one Auror monitoring the Leaky Cauldron at a time. Kinglsey, I want you to choose two from your department–they'll rotate shifts."

Kinglsey pursed his lips and nodded before silently sweeping from the room.

Penn ran his hands tiredly over his face, casting a dark look at the _Daily Prophet _that had arrived earlier in the morning. He had given up reading the paper; it made him too frustrated to read about how the Ministry was doing a terrible job at apprehending Black. Penn turned his gaze out his office window, which had a view of his two secretaries sorting through enormous stacks of folders. Their desks had become overwhelmed by paperwork, and were hardly visible through the mountains of leads and reported sightings.

For a brief moment, Penn wanted to lock his door and draw his blinds, and just lie in silence on his office floor. He wanted to forget about this entire fiasco. As tempting as it was, Penn stood up, shaking out his arms, and joined the chaos of the Auror division below.

* * *

Sirius didn't sleep that night. Instead, he examined the piece of parchment he had stolen from Crowley, with the title of a book they were all waiting for. Sirius didn't recognize the language–let alone understand it–and had no idea how to go about translating it. It was torture to be so close to whatever weapon the Death Eaters needed to return Voldemort to power, and yet feel like it was completely unattainable.

The other problem, of course, was Wormtail. Usually Sirius could trust that Dumbledore would be able to protect Harry, but the headmaster didn't know that a Death Eater was taking shelter within the very walls of Hogwarts, perfectly positioned to hand Harry over the moment Voldemort started gaining power. Sirius supposed he could write Dumbledore a letter– _Dear Headmaster: there is a rat in the Griffindor Tower that is actually Peter Pettigrew, the real traitor and a Death Eater whom I suspect may turn Harry over to Voldemort. _That would go over real well.

Sirius would need to find and destroy the book–whatever it was–and then stop Wormtail. The plan sounded simple enough, but it was fraught with complications and Sirius didn't know if it could be done, especially with the wizarding world after him.

Sirius lay back on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. Would it be enough to intercept the book? Surely the Death Eaters and other Voldemort-supporters would find another way to bring the Dark wizard back. He was hoping Malfoy would take care of the wizards Crowley was working with, but there would doubtlessly be others. And what would happen if Malfoy decided it was a bigger risk to ignore Voldemort than it was to try to bring him back?

Sirius had to force himself not to think like that. There was only so much he could do in the meantime, and he had to focus on how things were going presently.

* * *

It took Harry a moment to register where he was. For a moment he was shocked to see unfamiliar furniture and a distinct lack of muggle objects, but then Harry remembered that it was because he was no longer at Privet Drive.

The previous night's events had all gone by so quickly. Harry had reminded Uncle Vernon to sign his permission form before he left with the Weasleys in a week's time. Aunt Marge had overheard this conversation, and insisted that Uncle Vernon should not allow Harry anywhere outside of St. Brutus'. When Vernon agreed and brushed Harry off, the pudding in the man's hands had exploded.

The Dursleys hastily concocted a story about how the pudding must have slipped out of Vernon's hands. When Uncle Vernon went upstairs to change his shirt, Aunt Petunia sent Harry into the kitchen to wash dishes while the others ate the remainder of the fruit pie leftover from the previous night.

"...a trouble-maker, Petunia, dear," Marge was saying from the next room. "You mustn't blame yourself for the way this one turned out. It's good of you and Vernon to take the boy in. Lord knows that if he was dumped on my doorstep, it'd have been straight to an orphanage—"

"I'd rather live in an orphanage," Harry muttered under his breath, returning to the dining room to collect more dishes.

"And he has the nerve to request permission to run around while at school?" Marge continued without regard to the fact that Harry was standing right next to her. "Doesn't that boy get into enough trouble as it is? It's good of Vernon to put his foot down—that boy needs all the discipline he can get. Maybe if his parents had any, they wouldn't have gotten themselves killed!"

"Shut up!" Harry roared. "Just shut up!"

There was a stunned silence. Aunt Marge recovered first. "Who are you to talk to me like—"

They never found out what Harry spoke to her like, for Aunt Marge suddenly began to expand like a balloon. Vernon had re-entered the dining room, and froze in the doorway. Harry and the Dursleys watched as Aunt Marge's buttons popped off and seams broke. Within moments, she was the size of a very large hippo and was bobbing off the ceiling.

Harry took the moment to make a run for it. He ran to his room, grateful that his trunk had already been packed. Harry was just about to open the front door when Uncle Vernon slammed it shut.

"You put her back!" he roared, face purple. "You put her back—"

"No," snapped Harry. He pulled out his wand and pointed it at Uncle Vernon, who jumped back. "She deserved what she got! I'm out of here." With that, Harry had stormed out of the house with no clear idea of where to go.

Eventually the Knight Bus had picked up Harry and taken him to the Leaky Cauldron, where he met (properly, this time) the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge. After promising the Minister that he would stay in Diagon Alley and return to the Leaky Cauldron before dark, Harry trudged upstairs and fell asleep immediately.

Now, however, Harry almost felt a twinge of guilt for blowing up Aunt Marge and leaving her there. He didn't care so much about Marge herself, but rather his aunt and uncle. Would they let him come back next summer? Harry supposed it didn't matter–he could always move in with the Weasleys.

Harry trudged downstairs for breakfast. He had decided to spend the day wandering around Diagon Alley. Once there, he saw that the old bartender already had a plate of bacon and eggs waiting, along with that day's newspaper. Harry buttered himself some toast as he read over the front page's headline: _Black still at large–Ministry in disarray. _

_One week after Sirius Black's unprecedented escape from Azkaban prison, the Ministry of Magic remains in disarray. A Ministry insider–who spoke on condition of anonymity–reports that the Ministry is no nearer catching Black than they were a week ago. _

"_We have no real leads to work off of," he said. "We have an idea of where he's going, but obviously we hope to catch him before that. It's like he's completely disappeared."_

_Twelve years ago, Sirius Black was imprisoned for the murder of twelve muggles and one wizard: an old schoolmate, Peter Pettigrew. Yet Azkaban was not enough to hold the dangerous convict in place, as Black escaped at the end of July–a feat no one else has achieved. The Ministry has refused comment on the exact nature of Black's escape, but a source tells the _Prophet _that Dark Magic may have been the cause._

"_How else does anyone get out of Azkaban after twelve years? There was no one to help him–it doesn't make any sense. You-Know-Who must have taught him a—_"

"Scary stuff, isn't it?"

Harry looked up. Tom had been watching him read. "He was in league with You-Know-Who, of course."

"Yeah, I heard," said Harry, remembering the previous night's conversation with Stan Shunpike.

"I knew him, back in the day," Tom continued, lining freshly-washed glasses on the shelf behind him. "Used to come through here every summer with his parents and brother. Dark family, too, the lot of them. We all thought Sirius was different, but I suppose you can't stray too far from your roots, can you?"

"You knew him?" Harry asked, interested.

"Oh, I know nearly all the Hogwarts students," said Tom, smiling a toothless grin. "Most of them pass through here to get into Diagon Alley. Some would stop and stay for a while, others just march on through. Black's family typically did the later, but the older son—Sirius, that is—would always make it a point to say hello. Nice kid. Like I said," he added at the quizzical expression on Harry's face. "When word got out that he was a Death Eater, we were all surprised."

Harry turned back to the newspaper. Next to the article was a photograph of Black. He was thin and gaunt, with long dark hair and hollow eyes. It was strange to imagine such a man had once been a good-natured boy.

Harry spent that afternoon wandering around Diagon Alley, making it a point to visit shops he had only passed by before. He picked up treats for Hedwig at the Owlery, and spent a good two hours admiring the new Firebolt at the Quidditch supply shop with several other students. When the crowds started to thin, Harry made his way back to the Leaky Cauldron. Harry had promised Fudge that he would return long before nightfall, and had the sneaking suspicion that Tom had been enlisted to keep an eye on him.

* * *

Finally, when Sirius couldn't stand it any longer, he made a plan to visit Lucius Malfoy that evening. At first, Sirius tried to think of alternatives to simply showing up at Malfoy Manor, but there were none. He had no idea where Malfoy went, and it would take too long to try to hide in the man's garden and figure it out. Sirius realized he would have to risk a trap in order to speak to Malfoy again. He dearly hoped Malfoy needed him too much to try to send Sirius back to Azkaban.

It was twilight when he arrived, and Sirius vaguely realized the Malfoys were probably eating dinner. _Well, good, _he thought dully. _It'll be easier to cause a commotion I have to make a run for it_.

"Master is enjoying a meal with his family, and is unavailable for guests, sir!" the House-Elf called shrilly at the gates.

"Er, I know," Sirius hastily lied. "I was supposed to join the Malfoys this evening, but I'm afraid I've been running rather late."

There was a long pause on the other end. "One moment, sir!"

Sirius waited, hands in his pockets as he envisioned the poor House-Elf interrupting Malfoy's dinner. Several long moments passed before the gates finally slid open.

The House-Elf was waiting at the front door, and led Sirius down the corridor to a dining room. The Malfoys were clearly in the middle of their meal, and didn't look up when Sirius entered. The House-Elf pulled out a chair and gestured for Sirius to sit. He did so, and Malfoy finally spoke.

"Will this be something I ought to expect of you?" Malfoy asked casually. "You dropping in, unannounced, at unusual hours?"

Sirius adjusted slightly in his seat. "I am partially expecting a trap, Malfoy, and I could use any advantage possible." He glanced at Narcissa, who was watching him with narrowed eyes. Clearly Lucius had filled her in on Sirius' previous visit. "And how are you this evening, Cissy?"

Narcissa gave Sirius a sour look. "And so you found it pertinent to interrupt our dinner?"

"I did," said Sirius conversationally. "Don't take it personally. While I am certainly impressed with your ability to entertain guests, I'm not so certain about my own self-preservation. I know a thing or two about your basement."

Malfoy took a few bites more, clearly determined to play this ambush meeting as though it had been expected. Finally, he said, "I have given your proposition some thought, and I have a few questions for you, and I hope you choose to indulge me."

"Anything you like," Sirius said, glancing once around the dining room. He had only been here once, when Lucius and Narcissa were first married, and had no idea if the amount of suspicious-looking objects in the room were more plentiful than usual.

"You've explained the reasons why I ought to be interested in our business dealing," said Malfoy, taking a slow sip of wine. "But yet you have failed to articulate your own."

Sirius turned to look at Malfoy. "Does it matter?"

"Yes, because I need to be able to gauge your level of commitment. I'm not prepared to go forward if I suspect your dedication is weak."

"Well," said Sirius in a low voice, glancing once more around the dining room. He hesitated, wondering how truthful he should be. "I only care about protecting my godson. So long as _he _is out there, the boy is in danger. I don't care about what happens to me, or the others for that matter. I only want the boy safe."

"So this has nothing about old ideology?" Malfoy continued. "You're not trying to finish what your friends started?"

Sirius snorted. "I have no friends, Malfoy. After everything that's happened, I couldn't care less about who's in power and who isn't. The boy is my only concern."

Malfoy seemed to deliberate Sirius' answer.

"Look," said Sirius, his voice so low Malfoy stopped eating to listen. Narcissa watched them in silence. "We both want the same thing. For far different reasons, but ultimately we both stand to lose quite a bit if he returns. I'm not playing you. I wouldn't bother coming to you if I was in contact with the old Order, or had anyone else helping me. Not to mention if I'm going to be seeking revenge on anyone, it sure isn't your lot I'd be after."

Malfoy looked at Sirius for a long moment. Finally, he said, "You have no sense of obligation for your old friends? No desire to protect them whatsoever?"

Sirius was getting annoyed, and it showed in his voice. "No, Malfoy, I don't," he snapped. "They handed me straight to the dementors without a backwards glance. I gave everything for them, and that's what I get? I couldn't care less of Dumbledore or the Order." Sirius' chest felt tight at that. It was true that his primary concern was Harry, but Sirius didn't want harm to come to the others in the process.

Malfoy took a sip of wine, looking casually around the room. "Good," he said, finally. "Because you'll probably have to act against them at some point."

Sirius shot Malfoy a glare, but didn't say anything.

"I look forward to our future business relationship," said Malfoy, picking his silverware back up. "And–next time, you would be fine to simply send an owl to arrange a chat."

* * *

A/N: I am considering getting a beta-reader for this story (and potentially other stories), mostly to check for spelling errors, plot inconsistencies, and so forth. Let me know if you're interested.


	7. Panic, Sheer Bloody Panic

Chapter seven:

Sirius had never been in a more uncomfortable setting, including the disastrous dinner party when he was sixteen, where his parents had hinted that Sirius and Regulus should join the Death Eaters. How ironic it was that now, seventeen years later, Sirius was sitting in a group of them, offering information in exchange for their help.

Malfoy proved to be far more compliant than Sirius had expected. It seemed the man held a considerable amount of influence over other ex-Death Eaters, and had persuaded them to show up tonight. None of them appeared too happy, however. Sirius couldn't tell if it was due to his own presence, or if it was because of his less-than-pleasant news.

Two hours before, Malfoy had met with Sirius in private.

"I cannot promise their help, of course," he had said quietly, shutting the door behind him. It clicked loudly into place. "Although I do have a few recommendations that would aid in garnering their interest."

They were now sitting in Malfoy's smoking room, where the door had been sealed shut and charmed so that it would be impossible for anyone to eavesdrop. Sirius sat uncomfortably, staring blankly at a spot of floor some feet ahead of him. He hadn't said a word to explain his presence as the Death Eaters trickled in, and they didn't ask. Instead, they took their seats around him in equal silence, waiting for Malfoy to begin.

As soon as Goyle lit a cigar and took a long drag, Malfoy cleared his throat.

"I have called you here tonight for a very simple reason," he began softly. "There is a band of wizards seeking to restore the Dark Lord. Whether or not this can be achieved has yet to be seen, but our guest here has some valuable information that can put a stop to this. As you doubtlessly know, such an attempt has many implications for us. If it should occur, the Ministry will doubtlessly begin investigating. The faces for which you have worked so hard will be irrelevant–and if there is even the faintest trace of a link from us to them, then your families will fall into scandal and disgrace.

"As it is," Malfoy continued, pausing. Sirius could feel everyone looking at him, but didn't glance up. He felt disgusted with himself for participating in this conversation, but knew there was no other way. "You all know the dangers of attempting to return the Dark Lord ourselves, and have–like me–deemed the risk unnecessary.

"Finally, if the attempt should work, then that leaves us in a very precarious position, indeed. If we sit back and allow these other wizards to attempt this, then we face ruin either way. The only solution is to prevent it from happening at all, and continue on as we have been. There will be a day to return the Dark Lord, but that day has yet to come."

There was a pause in which Sirius finally looked up. He wasn't sure what kind of reaction to expect, but Sirius was surprised to see that the other wizards in the room looked disconcerted. Sirius had to give Malfoy credit for being a persuasive speaker–perhaps that was why the other Death Eaters tended to rally around him.

"What's the information?" Goyle asked roughly, blowing a cloud of smoke. Sirius looked at him stonily, but it was Malfoy who answered.

"That will come in time," he said. "What I need from you now is your commitment to this plan. In all likeliness, you will do little more than provide support and security. Our friend here has a personal mission to stop this secretive enemy himself."

"And how do we know Black isn't out to get revenge on the people in this room?" Macnair asked icily.

The corners of Sirius' mouth twitched at that. He was surprised that the Death Eaters were so worried he was secretly working with the Order. Had they all forgotten it was the Order and the Ministry who left him in Azkaban in the first place?

"Because by working with him, we're in a position to hand Black over to the Ministry at our discretion," said Malfoy, repeating the answer Sirius had given him when Malfoy had asked that very question. "Rest assured that it is Black–not us–who is taking the bigger risk here."

There was a pause.

"I would like a show of hands," Malfoy pressed, a hint of annoyance in his voice. "If no one here is willing to voice their agreement."

The other Death Eaters exchanged glances, then–one by one–slowly raised their hands.

"Black has a few requests to make before he agrees to share his information," Malfoy continued. The Death Eaters, who looked simultaneously exasperated and wary, turned to Sirius.

Sirius cleared his throat. He felt awkward naming terms with Death Eaters, especially Death Eaters he was now inadvertently working with. "My only concern for agreeing to do this is to protect Harry Potter. As such, he is not to be touched. I don't even want you thinking about him. Secondly, I want to keep the Order out of this as much as possible–I am not working with them, nor do I want to have anything to do with them. The later is more easily done if we don't involve them—"

"And what if they involve themselves?" Goyle asked roughly. "You should know how well they do that."

Sirius tried not to roll his eyes. "Well," he said slowly, looking at his hands. "The Order can't involve themselves in a situation they know nothing about. That brings me to my third condition: you have no confidants outside this room. Your wives, your friends, no one—no one is to know about this plan, and when it's all over, we will all carry on as though nothing has happened. Once this, er, _predicament _is over, I don't have loyalties to you, and you don't have any to me. We pretend as though this whole situation never transpired."

Macnair cleared his throat loudly. "And we're supposed to assume you're not leading us into some sort of trap? Some scheme concocted for the Ministry to let you trade places?"

Sirius sighed in exasperation. "What do you want me to tell them? That a handful of old Death Eaters _don't _want Voldemort to come back?"

Macnair opened his mouth angrily, but Malfoy intervened. "Now, let's not get hostile," he said firmly. He shot a warning glance at Macnair, then said patronizingly, "Black, you've named your terms, so perhaps we should press on."

"I want to make sure they agree to them," Sirius replied stubbornly, not breaking eye contact with Macnair.

"All right," said Malfoy in tones of forced patience. "Do we agree to the terms?"

"Don't touch Potter, leave the Order out of it, and pretend this was all a bad dream," said Goyle, rolling his eyes. Malfoy sent him a sharp look. "All right, all right! Yes, we agree." He said this last bit as though the words left a foul taste in his mouth.

"All right," sad Malfoy silkily. He turned to Sirius. "By all means, cousin. Tell us your plan."

Sirius adjusted his weight uncomfortably in his chair. "A man visited Crowley the other day. He's expecting some sort of package to be delievered, so he'll be coming back," said Sirius slowly. He consciously left out the part about the book. "I don't know his name, but he has a scar running the length of his face. He's the one working to bring Voldemort back to power."

"And how is he going to do that?" interrupted Goyle.

Sirius shrugged. "I don't know, he didn't say. But Crowley obviously knows him, and he's the one we need to find."

"Well, then perhaps we ought to pay a visit to old Crowley," said Macnair with an evil smile. Sirius frowned as the other Death Eaters exchanged darkly amused looks.

If Sirius had expected the Death Eaters to wait to act, he was sorely mistaken. An hour after the meeting at Malfoy Manor, the Death Eaters made arrangements to slip into Knockturn Alley and find Crowley–and they insisted that Sirius come.

"For insurance purposes, Black," Goyle had said, slipping on his cloak.

Sirius' eyes narrowed. "How so?"

"Because if you tried turning any of us in to the Ministry, you would have to prove you weren't involved in this," said Malfoy, tossing a spare cloak at Sirius. "And feel free to keep that," he added. "I know how hard it is for you to visit a tailor these days."

Sirius felt his guard shoot up. "And what exactly is your plan?"

"You're working with Death Eaters, Black," said Goyle roughly. "What do you think the plan is?"

With that, the Death Eaters disapparated one by one, and Sirius had no choice but to follow.

Knockturn Alley was dark and empty. Sirius' heart was pounding furiously in his chest at being so exposed, but the Death Eaters didn't seem to care. They quietly swooped into the shop, and as soon as the last man was inside, the locks turned, the lights dimmed, and the blinds were drawn.

Crowley stumbled as he tried to make a run for it, but a simple _locomotor mortis _sent by Malfoy caused his legs to spring together and he toppled onto the floor. "I don't know anything!" he said breathlessly.

Malfoy paused. "Anything?" he tested. Sirius felt his stomach churn at the beginnings of Malfoy's game. Malfoy stepped forward. "About what, exactly? Seems to me that you know a great deal."

Crowley's eyes darted nervously around the hooded and cloaked Death Eaters, beads of sweat erupting on his face. "I'm not involved with anything! I don't know!"

"You had a visitor," said Malfoy, his cold voice thoughtful. "A few nights ago, a man came in and bought your allegiance. What was his name?"

Crowley shook his head, breathing heavy and ragged.

"Let me refresh your memory," said Malfoy coldly. "_Crucio_!"

Sirius felt his stomach lurch, and he had to focus very hard on his breathing. He closed his eyes, but nothing would muffle the sound of Crowley screaming in pain.

"Oh, and he had a scar," said Malfoy slowly after he had lowered his wand. Crowley moaned on the floor. "How about now? Did I jog your memory?"

Crowley began to whimper. "I don't know, I don't know what you're talking about–"

"_Crucio_!"

The screaming went on longer this time. Sirius found himself repeating the steps for disapparition in his head over and over to distract himself. He could feel an unpleasant churning in his stomach, and focused very hard on not throwing up.

"Okay! Okay, I'll tell you! I'll tell you, just stop! Oh god, please–please stop!"

Malfoy lowered his wand, and there was a ringing silence in the shop.

Crowley struggled to catch his breath. "Weston...his name's...Weston. That's his...name."

"Weston what?" said Malfoy. "What's his first name?"

"I don't know–I don't know!" Crowley wailed, flinching at the sight of Malfoy's wand raising. "It start's with an 'O!' Like Owen or Orville or something."

"Owen or Orville Weston," said Malfoy slowly. He looked down at Crowley, who was still blubbering on the floor. It was almost pathetic to watch. Malfoy raised his wand again, and Crowley's hands shot up as though to protect himself from the curse.

"_Imperio_!"

The room fell silent, and a dreamy expression came over Crowley's face.

"Goyle, I want you to take care of this," said Malfoy, shooting Crowley a disgusted look. "Macnair, use your connections at the Ministry to find this Weston. Who he is, where he's from, everything. The rest of you can come with me. You, too, Black."

Sirius looked at Malfoy, and found it hard to hate the man when he was so filled with disgust for himself. He had just stood by and let a man–albeit a Voldemort supportter–get tortured while he watched on. He didn't have time to dwell on it, however, for Malyfoy lead the other Death Eaters out of the shop and Sirius had no choice but to follow.

Paranoid he would be recognized, Sirius kept his borrowed cloak drawn tightly about himself and determinedly kept his gaze down, trying to draw as little attention to himself as possible. If anyone in Knockturn Alley thought their party was strange, they didn't show it.

Malfoy led them to Borgin and Burke's, stepping back to allow everyone else to enter first. Sirius did so with trepidation, feeling like a gazelle walking into a pack of lions. Malfoy shut the door behind them, and walked briskly toward the front counter.

"I'll be right with you," a voice called from somewhere in the shop. "Is there anything in particular you're–oh, Lucius. I haven't seen you in lately." A short, balding man with black eyes appeared from behind a large display case. He glanced over the group of wizards and hesitated on Sirius before his eyes settled on Malfoy once again. "What can I do for you this evening?"

"I have a favor to ask of you," drawled Lucius, tapping his fingers lazily against the counter top. "I'm expecting an old friend to pay a visit to Crowley across the way. A wizard by the name of Weston. He shouldn't be hard to miss, as it's come to my attention that he has a rather large scar running the length of his face." As Malfoy spoke, he reached into his cloak and withdrew a small velvet purse which he set on the counter loudly, allowing the coins inside to jingle. "I'd like you to keep a watchful eye, and let me know when he stops by."

Borgin walked up to the counter, and unceremoniously began counting the gold inside the purse. Visibly satisfied, he turned to Malfoy. "Shall I send an owl, or would you prefer a more expedient message?"

"The faster the better," replied Malfoy. "I wouldn't want to miss him." He turned to leave, then hesitated, "Oh, and Borgin? I might ask someone to occasionally drop in and check on you."

Sirius watched as Borgin's stony expression turned to one of false pleasantry. "Of course, Lucius," he said. "Shall I interest you in anything while you're here? We recently recieved a new shipment of charmed quills. Any time you sign a legal document with one, it binds you magically. Go back on the arrangement, and your fingers turn to stone–"

"Not tonight, Borgin," said Lucius. He swept out of the shop without another word, and Sirius had no choice but to follow. He could feel Borgin watching him, but determinedly avoided his gaze.

Once outside, Malfoy checked the watch hooked to his waistcoat. "I think we are settled for the night. Crabbe and Goyle, if you could be so kind as to keep an eye on our friend Borgin . I'm not sure I entirely trust him to do as he's told."

Wordlessly, Crabbe and Goyle nodded.

Malfoy turned back to Sirius. "That just leaves us, cousin. Perhaps you should come back with me. I daresay Macnair is waiting for us."

* * *

Sirius had known what to expect, working directly with Death Eaters, but it still didn't stop him from feeling sick to his stomach when they returned to Malfoy Manor. Narcissa was nowhere to be seen, but Sirius doubted whether she had gone to bed. Sirius paced the drawing room for several long minutes, trying to tune out the screaming from downstairs. Unable to stand it any longer, Sirius vomited into a nearby vase. He continued to retch even when there was nothing left in his stomach, and remained doubled over until he felt like he was going to turn inside-out.

Sirius had to keep reminding himself that the man downstairs would gladly have seen Harry die to bring Voldemort back. He would have handed a child over without a second thought, subjecting the boy to a slow and painful death to return to power the most evil wizard to have existed. And for what? Social status? Money?

Sirius felt disgusted that anyone could want to kill a thirteen-year-old boy to bring a murderer back to power. As the sickness was replaced with anger, Sirius was able to straighten up again, his heart pounding furiously against his chest. And then he remembered: this is exactly what his friends thought of _him. _They all believed that Sirius turned on all of them, on his best friend's family, and sold them to Voldemort.

Sirius had to stop himself from thinking those thoughts. Whatever the Order might have done–or will do–didn't matter. All that mattered was that Harry was safe. Sirius owed it to James.

Just as Sirius finished rinsing his mouth out in the nearby bathroom, Lucius walked briskly down the hall. He caught sight of Sirius and stopped, an expectant look on his face. Sirius frowned. "What?"

"Crowley would like to speak with you," said Malfoy. His voice was indifferent, but his look suggested otherwise. "I'm sure you remember where the entrance to the basement is located. And," he added. "Do remember that you're not in a position to barter with him. If you want to save your godson, then perhaps you would do well to remember that there's only one way to get information out of people."

Sirius paused for a long moment, staring at Malfoy wordlessly. Then, unaware he was even moving his feet, Sirius walked down the dimly-lit corridor and toward the heavy oak door that marked the entrance to the basement. Sirius descended the stairs, his heart racing and all the while wondering why on earth Crowley would want to speak with him.

Sirius stopped dead in his tracks when he reached the basement, and had a wild urge to turn around immediately. However, he was able to regain a grip on himself and march forward, to where Crowley sat bound and bleeding. Wordlessly, hands in his pockets to hide the fact that they were shaking, Sirius stepped in front of Crowley.

The man was wheezing, and flinched when he saw a pair of feet in front of him. He jerked his head up, and his face erupted into a pitiful expression of desperation when he saw who it was. "Make them stop!" he wheezed. "You were there! You know that Weston didn't tell me anything!"

Sirius' throat was too tight to speak. He was unable to do anything except stare at Crowley in horror. Not so much at what was done to the man, but that Sirius was involved in it at all. "What was the book?" he asked. Sirius' voice was calm and collected, the polar opposite of how Sirius was feeling.

Crowley began to shake, tugging in vain at the ropes that bound him. "I don't know!"

Sirius sighed. "I know for a fact that you trade in illegal contraband and banned books. If you had no idea what the book was before last week, I know you would have researched it since then."

"I don't know, I don't know!" Crowley repeated desperately. "Tell them to let me go! I don't know anything!"

"What about Weston?" Sirius asked instead. It was everything he could do to keep himself in the basement, talking to Crowley. "Who does he work with?"

Crowley shook his head again. "I don't know–a couple of low-lives. They were too cowardly to run with You-Know-Who the first time around, and now that he's gone, they want to get special treatment!"

Sirius sighed. He reached into his pocket for the slip of paper he had stolen from Crowley the last time they met, and held it out to him to read. "What does this say?"

Crowley shook his head. "Let me go..."

"I'll let you go as soon as you tell me what you know," said Sirius, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

"But Malfoy—"

"Malfoy's working for me," lied Sirius dismissively. "Malfoy might like to play games by bringing you here, but I don't have time to waste. What is this?"

Crowly stole a glance at the slip of paper in Sirius' hand. "That's the title of the book Weston wants," he said breathlessly. "It's an old book, probably from the eleventh century."

Sirius frowned. "How do you know, if you don't know what the book's about?"

Crowly shook his head again. "It's the language–that's Old English there, but you'd hardly recognize it. Looks more like Gaelic, doesn't it?"

"Why would Weston want this book?" Sirius pressed.

"I told you, I don't know what it's about!"

Sirius sighed. "Do I have to bring Malfoy back down here?"

That seemed to do it. Crowley burst into tears, a pitiful sight that made Sirius cringe. "I don't know what, exactly–" he said between sobs. "But it–it's supposed to help You-Know-Who come back–"

"How?" Sirius asked sharply.

Crowley shook his head desperately. "I don't know! I promise, I don't know–I can't read the book–"

"Then who can?"

Crowley looked up at him, confusion mingled with fear. "What?" he said, not comprehending. His sobs had come to a sudden halt, but his cheeks glistened in the poor lighting.

"Give me the name of someone who can read this," said Sirius, waving the paper at Crowley before pocketing it.

Crowley shook his head. "I don't–"

"Come on, stop wasting my time," snapped Sirius. "If you can't read it, I know you know people who can. Otherwise how would you know which banned books are of any value?"

Crowley took a sharp gasp of air and began to rock in his bonds. For several moments he was silent, and Sirius began to wonder if he would answer at all. Finally, just as Sirius opened his mouth to speak, Crowley said, "Oslo...I have a contact in Oslo, in Norway. He can read it. His name is Dietrichson."

Sirius frowned. "How do I get into contact with him without going all the way to Norway?"

Crowley shook his head. "There isn't a way–you have to go in person, unless you wanted to ship the book to him."

Sirius sighed heavily. His hand clutched the paper in his pocket, and then he said, "We're going to set you back up in shop. Do you remember the deal about the book?"

Crowley froze. Sirius took that as a "yes."

"When the book comes in, you are not to tell anyone. Don't even mention something about a book to the others. When it comes in, you tell me straight away, and I'm going to take it. Afterwards, I want you to contact Weston and tell him the book came. Pretend you still have it. We'll be waiting for him. Do you understand?"

Crowley nodded quickly, sniffing as he did so.

Sirius sighed. "Good," he said dully, suddenly feeling very tired. He ran a hand over his face, and said, "Don't disappoint me. If you do as you're told, then we'll leave you alone. But if you don't..." Sirius trailed off, unable to think of anything with which to finish off the threat. That seemed to be enough, however, because Crowley rushed to say that he would do as directed.

With a headache pounding behind his eyes, Sirius ascended the stairs and found Malfoy sipping wine with Macnair in the hallway. Sirius frowned at the strange sight in front of him, unable to comprehend the idea that people could be so casual after torturing someone for the better part of an hour.

"He doesn't know anything," said Sirius. "He's just a pawn. It's Weston who has information."

Malfoy raised a skeptical eyebrow, but it was Macnair who spoke. "And how can you be sure of that?"

"Because I was there when Weston came by, and everything Crowley told me fits," said Sirius sharply. "It's Weston we want. Crowley's involved for a profit, nothing more. So we're going to wait for Weston. I told Crowley that he's going to sit tight in his shop, and as soon as Weston comes by, we'll have a little chat with him."

Malfoy looked amused at that, a stark contrast to his surly companion. "Whatever you want, cousin. This is your operation we're working, after all."

* * *

Harry awoke later than usual several days after Crowley's brief kidnaping from Knockturn Alley, and unable to fall back asleep, got dressed and decided to walk around Diagon Alley once more. He had purchased everything he needed for term except his school books, and was left with little to occupy his time. Harry had taken to entering shops he had never been in before, examining bizarre magical objects he had never seen before.

The weather was unusually damp for the time of year, and several witches and wizards were dressed in shawls and cloaks. Normally this would have been an odd sight to Harry, but he found himself eyeing the heavy traveling cloaks and wished that he had worn something warmer than his oversized hooded sweatshirt. Harry didn't feel like returning to the Leaky Cauldron just yet, and settled for an early dinner outside of a small café he had grown rather fond of in the past week. Harry settled back in one of the chairs near the window, watching the shoppers come and go. Once or twice Harry saw a Hogwarts student, but most of the shoppers were middle-aged witches gossiping amongst themselves and the occasional wizard holding a large cauldron or disgruntled-looking owl. Diagon Alley was emptier than usual, and Harry noticed the shoppers constantly glancing at the wanted posters that papered the shop windows.

Just as Harry was finishing his tea, he saw a group of wizards–all dressed in black cloaks–marching down the main road. Normally he would have ignored them, but the leader of the group had silvery-blonde hair and Harry recognized him instantly as Lucius Malfoy. Curious, Harry watched the group's progress through the window and disappear around a corner street Harry knew led to Knockturn Alley. A lady glanced furtively at them as she passed, and hurried down the main road, clutching her shopping closer to her chest.

Harry paid his tab and walked outside, but barely made it ten feet before thick raindrops fell heavily from the sky. Harry pulled up his hood against the rain and resigned himself to an evening locked in his hotel room. Harry wished he could have at least known which books to buy so that he could get skim through the pages, but Harry figured he could always work on the puzzles in that morning's paper.

Harry turned onto a side street–a shortcut he had discovered the previous morning–but soon came to a dead-end. A large cart had fallen over and crates of what looked like oranges spilled into the lane. Two old wizards were yelling at each other and Harry figured it would be best to turn around and go back to the pub the main way. Just as he turned to do so, Harry couldn't find the mouth of the alleyway. He looked around dumbly, expecting it to be right by the newspaper stand and linen shop, but there was nothing there.

Harry turned back to the arguing wizards, debating if it was worth trying to get around their mess.

"...pay for all of them, you will!"

The other picked up an orange and threw it against the shop wall. Instead of splatting on the side and falling to the ground in a dented heap, the object Harry took to be an orange exploded in bright pink dust against the bricks. "I will not! Go ahead and get your boys out here, I'm not buying any of this!"

The two men advanced on each other as though to fight, and the shopboy ran out, hands held out to each of them. Harry decided risking a black eye wasn't worth the shortcut and turned around. He swore under his breath at one-way magical alleys and made his way up the opposite end of the lane, looking for the first street that would take him back.

This part of Diagon Alley looked much older and less-traveled, but Harry was too busy looking for an exit to stop to examine the shop windows. The rain still fell in thick globs and Harry's sweatshirt was becoming uncomfortably damp by the minute. After nearly 200 meters Harry came across another sign that pointed the way into Knockturn Alley. He hesitated, debating whether or not he should cut through. He had a vague knowledge of Knockturn Alley, but that was only because he had the misfortune of accidentally flooing there the year before.

"You lost, lad?"

Harry turned to see a middle-aged man exiting the closest shop, a shiny black pipe in his fingers. He lit a match and ignited the pipe, which gave off the characteristic green smoke of wizarding tobacco. The man was dressed in a suit–too simple to be considered fine, but the fabric was neatly pressed.

"I'm just looking to get back to the main road," said Harry, eyeing the man hesitantly. He looked harmless enough–like he could be friendly even–but Harry wasn't dumb enough to be fooled by looks. The man was shopping in Knockturn Alley, after all.

"So you thought about cutting through Knockturn Alley?" he asked, eyebrows raised in amusement. He shrugged. "Well, you're right in that it's faster, but not necessarily safer. Though I suppose you can hold your own, right?"

Harry didn't know what to make of this. The man was smiling at him, which complicated Harry's notion of him being some kind of crook.

"Tell you what," he said, stowing the pipe away suddenly. "I'm waiting for my idiot brother, but I can walk you through. Most people in there know my brother, so they don't harrass me. Wizard scout's honor," he added, holding up his hand. Harry hesitated, and the man laughed. "I promise I'm not trying to rob you, or something like that," he continued. "My brother's a bit of a crook and I get the pleasure of babysitting him every now and then–make sure he's not up to anything _too _illegal, you know. But it's up to you. Otherwise the nearest street is half a mile up–you'll loop around to the northern side of Diagon Alley and walk all the way back down. This lane will lead you to the Leaky Cauldron, though," he added, pointing the way Harry had just come.

"It's blocked," said Harry.

The man shrugged. "That's too bad. But like I said, I'll show you the way if you like. Otherwise just keep going straight and make a right when you pass that crystal ball shop."

Harry glanced over the man's shoulder and into the entrance of Knockturn Alley. The lane was clear, but Harry knew better than to assume that meant it was empty. "I think I'll just go around," he said slowly, looking back at the man.

He shrugged again. "That's probably wisest. Well, good luck. Madam Pemberley will try to sell you a crystal ball or two when you reach the turn, so watch out for her."

"Thanks," said Harry, frowning at the man's retreating figure before resuming his way up the street. Harry felt a little guilty at being so obviously mistrustful–especially of someone who seemed genuinely nice–but he could just imagine the looks on his friends' faces if they found out he walked into Knockturn Alley with a complete stranger merely two weeks after Black's escape from Azkaban.

True to the stranger's words, Harry came across another sign directing shoppers into the main road of Diagon Alley just outside a crystal ball shop. He glanced at the windows and frowned. The windows were heavily cloaked by shawls and strings of beads, and a small display of smoky orbs sat in the window. It looked a little hokey to Harry, and he wondered if that was what his Divination class would be like. If it was, at least he had the class with Ron, and they could make fun of it together.

By the time he had reached the main road again, the rain had stopped and left behind the hot scent of wet asphalt. The few remaining shoppers had retreated into the safety of the stores, and so Harry was able to make his way down the road with no obstacles. As he neared the main entrance to Knockturn Alley, however, Harry could hear raised voices. He frowned and slowed his pace slightly, but no one was on the street.

Harry crossed the lane and dug his hands into his pockets for his wand. He kept his eye trained on the alley's entrance up ahead, but all that he could see was a shaggy black dog dart across the main road and disappear into another alley. The street fell silent, and Harry quickened his pace, feeling overly-paranoid. He figured he had been over-reacting when a man suddenly bolted out of the alley and ran head-long into him. Harry fell over sideways, the man on top of him scrambling to get back to his feet. Harry was just about to rush to his feet again when he felt the unmistakable _whoosh _of a spell shooting inches above his head. He whipped around and saw three cloaked figures running at him, wands out. Harry reached for his wand again, but the wizards had already run past him before he could wrap his fingers around it. Stunned, Harry turned to see them chasing the first man, shooting spells as they went.

Harry sat, dumbstruck, for a few minutes as the main road returned to quiet once more. The four men had disappeared and Harry could only vaguely hear them shouting in the distance. Harry shakily got to his feet and decided he should get back to the Leaky Cauldron as fast as possible. Just as he did so, however, an explosion in the alley across the street caused Harry to duck for cover. Glass shards and wood splinters erupted into the main street, and the first explosion was immediately followed by a second.

Harry whipped out his wand and tried to run past the entrance to Knockturn Alley, but a pair of hands seized him roughly around the arms and whipped him around. Harry lost his balance at the change in momentum, but quickly got to his feet, wand out.

"Go!" hissed the man who had grabbed him. He gave Harry another hard push down the narrow lane. "Get out of here!"

Harry took several steps backwards, his wand still trained on the dark-haired man. The man paid him no attention, however, and immediately slipped out of sight. Harry turned and took off running, making the familiar loop toward Madam Malkin's robe shop. Back on another open street, Harry leaned against the stone wall, breathing heavily. His arm stung painfully and his hip and shoulder ached, but Harry ignored it. He looked around at all the shops around him, desperate for somewhere safe to go, but all the windows were closed and the lights were out. As if to emphasize Harry's dismaying situation, it began to rain again.

Regaining a grip on himself, Harry hurried down the street but didn't make it far until he heard a woman screaming in the distance. Harry whipped around, trying to figure out the direction, but it seemed to come from everywhere. Harry tightened his grip on his wand, moving back towards the narrow alley. The screaming became louder, and Harry ran forward to help.

"Not Harry! Please, no, take me instead!"

Harry's heart beat furiously against his chest as he ran flat-out into the alley again, expecting to find a woman. Instead, there was no one there.

Harry frowned, turning around again. The shadows seemed to grow heavier in the dark alley and the rain froze against Harry's skin.

"Please, not Harry! Kill me! Kill me instead!"

Harry hurried down the alley again, trying to figure out where the woman was. She was going to be killed if he didn't find her–

Harry's legs felt thick and his vision blurred. Had the air always been so cold? Without knowing what he was doing, Harry slowed down. He reached out an arm in the thick darkness and found the rough stone wall. He braced himself against it and tried to charge forward, but it was like the air itself wouldn't let him move. And in the background the woman was still screaming, only this time it was in his head.

_Not Harry! _

Harry felt his knees hit the ground but had no sensation of falling over. He blinked several times to try to clear his vision, but each time the darkness seemed to multiply. He had to get to her somehow...

A bright light exploded somewhere in front of him, and Harry could see a dark figure moving towards him, running at him. Harry tried to shout that there was a woman about to be murdered when the figure swooped down on him. Cold hands seized his face and forced it upwards. The darkness was beginning to lift, and Harry tried to focus on the face in front of his. The skin was as white as bone and the eyes hollow and dark. It looked much different now, but Harry had seen this face hundreds of times on fliers all over the village, and immediately recognized it as belonging to the same man from moments before.

He fainted.


	8. Number 12, Grimmauld Place

Chapter eight:

It had grown dark outside by the time Harry had finally given up struggling against his bonds. He gave one last half-hearted tug and sighed, looking around the rather dismal room Black had left him in. There was an enormous quantity of dust on the floor and furniture, and a distinct smell of mildew in the air. As if on cue, a beam of yellow light appeared beneath the doorway and Harry heard approaching footsteps. Harry stiffened in his chair, trying to prepare himself for whatever Black was about to do to him.

The door opened without preamble and Harry squinted as the light was switched on. Black was standing in the doorway, looking at him, and Harry frowned in spite of himself. Black looked rather haggard and his hand was wrapped in a bloodstained bandage. Harry had wondered what on earth Black had been doing all this time, but wasn't very comforted by the answer.

"Are you going to keep fighting me, or can I untie you and trust you won't try to attack me again?" Black asked from the doorway.

Harry's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"I thought you might be hungry," Black continued, holding up a muggle grocery sack of food. "So I sent Kreacher out for food. I figured you would think I was trying to poison you if I prepared something myself." Black set the bag down on the nearby bed and rummaged through it, withdrawing two fastfood hamburgers. Harry had planned on refusing anything from Black, but the smell of food was overwhelming, and he hadn't eaten since yesterday...

Black moved toward Harry suddenly, and Harry jumped. Black ignored him and merely untied one of Harry's hands. Harry briefly considered the idea of grabbing Black and continuing the previous night's fight, but knew he didn't stand a chance with three of his limbs secured tightly to a chair.

"What is it that you want?" Harry asked sharply, glaring at Black.

Black glanced at him once but didn't say anything.

Harry had woken up in this same bedroom late the night before, soaking wet and feeling sick to his stomach. He had no idea where he was, but he remembered Black. The musty bedroom in which he was kept was locked and Harry jiggled the doorknob several times with no result. He debated trying to kick down the door but imagined his kidnapper would have thought of that and instead waited against the door with his ear pressed against the wood, listening. Finally, after almost an hour in the strange, dark room, Harry could hear approaching footsteps. The lock clicked, and Harry lunged at the man on the other side, knocking them both to the ground.

Harry got to his feet and sprinted down the dimly-lit hallway, but a pair of hands seized him roughly around the ankles. Harry fell forward and instinct told him to kick out, but an ancient-looking House-Elf already had him pinned to the ground. Harry struggled, but the elf's grip tightened painfully. Black appeared a second later, frowning as he looked down at the scene before him.

"Loosen your grip, Kreacher, or you're going to break his arm," Black said, rubbing the back of his head. Harry figured Black must have hit it when he lunged at him, and was glad for it.

Kreacher peered at Harry for a moment, then did as he was told. Harry tried to free himself, but the elf hadn't let up enough.

"I was going to offer you something dry to change into," Black continued, looking down the hallway at his dropped load. "But I see you have other plans."

"What do you want?" Harry snapped, glaring up at Black.

Black ignored him and picked up the clothes that had fallen onto the floor. Harry watched from the ground as Black tossed them into the bedroom and stepped back out of the doorway. "Kreacher, let him up so he can walk."

"As master wishes," wheezed the ancient elf after a pause, letting go of Harry's arms and climbing off his chest.

Harry immediately got to his feet, looking from the baleful elf to Black, who stood further down the hall with his arms crossed. Making up his mind in a split second, Harry turned on his heel and ran down the hall. He made it to the edge of the staircase before the House-Elf caught him again. Harry smacked hard into the wall, aggravating his already aching shoulder.

"Nasty little brat," muttered the elf, dragging Harry down the hallway. "Don't know why Master wants him here–oh my poor Mistress, if she knew!"

"Your poor mistress is dead, Kreacher," said Black flatly, following the elf and Harry down the hall and into the bedroom. "You take orders from me, now."

The elf muttered something unintelligible, dragging Harry roughly into the room. Black shut the door behind them, locking it as he did so. He looked at Harry once before moving to the adjacent bathroom. "And hold him still," he added as an afterthought to Kreacher.

Harry was left pinned to the floor, waiting for Black to kill him while an old House-Elf sat heavily on his chest. Black returned a few seconds later, a damp washcloth and gauze in his hands. Harry frowned, wondering what on earth Black was planning to do with them.

Black kneeled down on the floor next to them, examining Harry's arm. Harry tried to wrestle it away, but Black merely sighed in annoyance and yanked it back toward himself. "This might sting a little," he said, wiping the dirt and grime out of Harry's scraped arm. Harry flinched at the contact but was too stunned with what was going on to pull it away again. Black was actually healing his wound? What was the point of that if he was just going to kill Harry in a moment anyway?

Harry watched in confused silence as Black wrapped the gauze several times around his arm. Kreacher was still sitting painfully on his chest, making it uncomfortable to breathe.

"If you're going to kill me, just get it over with," said Harry as Black was tying off the bandage.

"No one's going to kill you," said Black without looking up.

"Yeah, that's really comforting, coming from the murderer," said Harry in spite of himself.

Black shot him a look and sighed, but didn't reply. He disappeared from Harry's view again, leaving Harry alone with the House-Elf.

"Comes back from Azkaban, messing up my mistress's house," muttered Kreacher, glaring after Black. "And they say he's a murderer, too–"

"You might as well change out of those wet clothes and get some sleep," said Black, returning to the bedroom. "The windows are charmed shut and the door can't be kicked open. There's no point in wasting your time trying to escape."

Harry had spent the night trying just that, and when Black returned in the morning, Harry tried to overpower him once more. Despite his wasted frame, Black was much stronger than Harry and the stunt earned him an afternoon tied to the chair where he sat now.

"So what are you going to do?" Harry asked, trying to goad some kind of response out of Black, who had been annoyingly silent the entire time. "Keep me tied to this chair forever?"

"I was content to keep you in the bedroom, but obviously you'd rather attack me at every given opportunity," said Black, breaking the seal on a bottle of water.

"Well, I figured that would be natural, since you did kidnap me," retorted Harry.

Black held out the food to Harry, who took it warily, staring at him.

Black rolled his eyes impatiently. "If I was going to kill you, I wouldn't poison your food to do it."

Harry glanced down at the burger, grudgingly seeing the logic in Black's argument. "So if you're not going to kill me, then what are you going to do?"

Black sighed. "I haven't decided."

Harry's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What? Are you torn between handing me over for ransom money, or would you rather try to figure out how I defeated Voldemort? Because if it's the latter, you might as well let me go because I don't know–no one does."

"I figured as much," said Black, shrugging nonchalantly.

Harry stared at him. His previous experience with Death Eaters led Harry to believe that they were all sour-tempered and quick to anger whenever Harry made a comment about Voldemort. Black–who was Voldemort's right-hand man–didn't even seem fazed.

"What happened to your hand?" Harry asked, eyeing the bandage again. Normally he wouldn't care if his captor was injured, but Harry's curiosity was getting the better of him. He figured he would be better off knowing everything he could about Black.

Black looked at it and then back to Harry, as though he also found the question quite strange. "This house has never been a fan of me, even when I was young."

Harry raised his eyebrows. "The house attacked you?" he asked sardonically.

"More like the things in it," said Black. "But don't worry," he added as an afterthought, handing the open water bottle to Harry. "I've cleared out the worst of it in this bedroom, so you should be fine." Without further comment, Black strode from the room and shut the bedroom door softly behind him.

Harry was left with one free arm and a dinner that was torturing his senses. His will to defy Black at every opportunity was already breaking. The food just smelled too good, and Harry was _starving. _And it made sense that Black wouldn't bother to poison Harry when it would be easier to just use magic to kill him. Feeling strangely guilty about it, Harry clumsily unwrapped the burger and took a bite, ignoring the fact that it had grown slightly cold.

Once he had finished, Harry crumpled up the wrapper into a ball and tossed it aside. Sighing, he looked around. Harry's eyes fell onto the bathroom door and stopped. _Crap, _he thought. He could feel nature's call, and was nowhere near desperate enough to attempt to urinate into the empty water bottle.

Well, if Black was going to hold him hostage, then the man would just have to deal with Harry being difficult at every opportunity.

"Hey!" Harry yelled, pulling against his ropes as he did. "Hey, Black! Come back here a minute!" Harry used his free hand to try to undo the ropes on his other, but it was impossible: the knots were too tight for one set of fingers. "Hey! Are you listening?"

He could hear footsteps approaching, and a moment later, Black reappeared in the doorway.

"I need to use the bathroom," said Harry.

Black looked at the doorway over Harry's shoulder and frowned. Harry figured Black hadn't thought of what he would do when that happened. Wordlessly, Black marched past him and rummaged in the cabinets for several minutes, probably confiscating anything Harry could use as a weapon. Satisfied he had removed everything, Black returned to the chair and began to untie Harry.

Harry held still as Black worked, intending to take one good swing at Black's eye as soon as he was free. That ancient House-Elf was nowhere to be found, so Harry figured he stood a chance at escaping the house. However, once Harry stood up, he realized just how numb his limbs were at being tied down for so long. He could barely stand upright, let alone fight off Black. He took a wild swing at Black anyway but ended up tripping. Black, who didn't notice the first part, caught Harry partway down and dragged him back to his feet.

"You're not going to wait and watch are you?" Harry grumbled, trying to wrestle free from Black's grip before he had quite regained his step.

"I will if you cause trouble," replied Black.

Harry shot him a withering look before he slammed the bathroom door shut. He noticed it didn't have a lock on it and sighed. Harry had to tell himself it was irrelevant, because Black would be able to break in anyway if he wanted to.

Harry looked at his reflection in the mirror and grimaced. He had a shallow scrape on his left cheek and nose, and his hair was a wild mess. Harry's skin was nearly as ghostly as Black's, and there were dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep. He had grudgingly changed into the dry clothes Black had provided, which looked to be at least two decades old. Despite their age, they were in good condition and fit better than Dudley's old things.

Harry heard the floorboards creak just outside the door, and sighed in irritation. "I can't go with you hovering there!"

He could almost feel Black rolling his eyes as the boards creaked again, this time to signal that Black had moved away from the door. Harry shot the door a dark look before turning on the serpent-shaped tap, which gurgled before releasing a steady stream of slightly orange-tinted water. Once his business was done, Harry turned off the tap again and hovered by the doorway. He knew there was no way to escape from the bathroom and that it would be pointless to sit in there. Harry would enjoy wasting Black's time, but figured the man would just take his annoyance out on Harry.

Harry swung the bathroom door open, and immediately caught sight of Black sitting on the edge of the musty four-poster bed, his chin resting in his hand. "I'm done," he announced, making sure every syllable rang with dislike.

Black raised one eyebrow, but didn't reply.

"So what's next on the agenda?" Harry asked, crossing his arms defiantly and leaning against the bathroom door. "Are you going to tie me up again?"

"That depends on how willing you are to behave yourself," said Black in the same tone as Harry. "You gave me a pretty good bruise this morning."

"I think it was warranted."

Harry thought he saw something like a smirk cross Black's face, but it disappeared as quickly as it had come. Black got to his feet and stretched. "Get some sleep. We have a long day tomorrow."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?" he asked, his voice betraying his unease.

Black sighed exasperatedly, letting his arms drop to his sides. "I'm not going to kill you–"

"Yeah, but why should I believe anything you say?" Harry asked. "You're an escaped murderer and a Death Eater, and you've locked me inside this house!"

"That was hardly my choice, now, was it?" Black said, annoyed.

Harry frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"What on earth did you think you were doing, wandering around Diagon Alley that close to twilight?" Black demanded, sounding a lot like a parent scolding a child. "When I caught you in the alley and told you to get out of there–"

"That was you?" Harry interrupted.

Black rolled his eyes. "Yes, that was me. The point is, if you hadn't stuck around to see what was going on, you wouldn't be here!"

Harry's eyes narrowed. "What are you talking about? _You _kidnaped me–"

"You were about to be attacked by dementors, not to mention the presence of at least half a dozen Death Eaters in the alley–"

"Dementors?" Harry asked dumbly, interrupting again.

"Yes," said Black dismissively. He raised an eyebrow at Harry's obvious confusion. "Dementors? The guards of Azkaban?"

"Never heard of them."

"Yeah, well, lucky you," said Black coolly. "The point is, if you hadn't been there in the first place, I wouldn't have had to drag you out of there–"

"What, are you saying you _rescued _me?" Harry asked, snorting in wry amusement. "Voldemort's right-hand man, _rescuing _the Boy-Who-Lived from dementors, or whatever?"

"Don't be smart," snapped Black. "You weren't supposed to be anywhere near Knockturn Alley, and yet somehow you were. So now I get to figure out what to do with you."

"If you were saving me," said Harry, his voice heavy with disbelief. "Why didn't you just drop me off at the Leaky Cauldron instead of dragging me all the way here?"

"Oh, yeah, I should have just walked right into the pub in the middle of drinking hour and handed you to the barman," said Black sarcastically. He shook his head, then he added more calmly, "There wasn't a lot of time, and this place was the only one I could think of that was safe–"

"Even though the house attacks you?" Harry pointed out, nodding at Black's bandaged hand. "What were you doing in the alley, anyway?"

"That doesn't matter," said Black dismissively, moving to the bedroom door. "We're leaving early in the morning. Since I'm sure you spent every minute last night looking for a weak spot, you had better spend tonight sleeping."

"There was a woman," said Harry frowning, suddenly remembering the screaming in the alley. "What happened to her?"

Black's hand froze on the doorknob. "There was no one there."

"Yes, there was," Harry insisted. "I could hear her–she was about to be killed–"

"There wasn't anyone else around," said Black, facing the door. "It was most likely an effect of the dementors."

Harry's frown deepened. "What do you mean?"

Black didn't answer. He exited the room and shut the door a little too roughly. Harry watched the doorknob twitch as Black locked it, and listened to Black's footsteps fade away. Harry sighed in exasperation and walked over to the four-poster bed, where he flopped down on it, arms spread wide. Black hadn't told him much of anything, but what he did say gave Harry a lot to think about.

Harry rolled onto his back and examined the room. Before, he had spent his time looking for a weak spot in which to escape, but now that it was obviously out of the question, Harry began to examine the room's furnishings. The furniture was standard enough, but it was the decor that caught Harry's eye and made him frown. Old Griffindor banners and muggle posters of bikini-clad girls hung from the walls, and a motorcycle-themed calendar dated 1975 dangled from a single rusty nail. The bedroom had clearly been in disuse for some time, but it had the feel of hastily being scrubbed over. Something, Harry was sure, was Black's doing.

That was another thing Harry found incredibly strange. He had expected Black to take joy in torturing Harry, but he seemed to have an unusual amount of concern for his comfort–beyond tying Harry to a chair for most of the day, of course. He didn't know if this was some kind of trick, because Harry had a lot of difficulty imagining Voldemort's right-hand man being someone who was sympathetic. And what was that about Black bothering to rescue him? He could only imagine Black would do such a thing if he needed Harry, which Black had also denied.

Harry rubbed his eyes, but refused to acknowledge how tired he was. How was he supposed to sleep in a strange house with a Death Eater for a kidnaper walking around? Harry sat up again, and his eyes fell on a narrow bookcase in the corner. Curious, Harry examined the titles–all of which were covered in a thick layer of dust. A rather thick volume caught Harry's eye, and he pried it out of its spot. Wiping the cobwebs and dust off, Harry saw that it was a condensed wizarding encyclopedia. It was dated 1974, however, but Harry was sure it would have some mention of what dementors were.

Skimming through the musty pages, Harry found what he was looking for rather quickly. A tiny ink drawing of what looked like a black-cloaked ghost accompanied a quarter page's worth of text.

_Dementor...a creature of unknown origin; considered by many to be a Dark creature due to a dementor's unique powers (see Dementor's Kiss, pg. 384). Much is unknown of how a dementor reproduces, but it is assumed dementors form in a mist produced by cold, dark places. Dementors are typically found in northern territories, including but not limited to: northern Europe and Great Britain, North America, and northeastern Asian countries such as China, Japan, and Mongolia. In the United Kingdom, dementors have served as the guards of Azkaban (see Azkaban Prison, pg. 119) since 1684. Dementors can only be seen by wizards, but their presence is reportedly felt by non-magical people (see Muggle, pg. 602). Dementors are distinctly marked for their adverse effects on humans magical and non-magical, particularly that of their feeding habits. To survive, dementors feed off of happy and other pleasant emotions, leaving their prey left with nothing but their worst memories. If exposed too long, a wizard will lose his powers, and eventually go insane. No spell can destroy a dementor, but the Patronus Charm (see Patornus Charm, pg. 778) is successful in driving dementors away._

Harry re-read the text twice before turning his eyes back to the small ink drawing. Black had said there were dementors in Diagon Alley, but Harry hadn't seen anything. And he was quite certain he had no memories of a screaming woman. Harry turned the page over and scanned the bolded headlines until he found a tiny section, barely more than a few lines, on the Dementor's Kiss.

_The Dementor's Kiss is the act in which a dementor sucks out a victim's soul–_

Harry stopped and re-read the first part of the sentence, sure he had missed something.

_...in which a dementor sucks out a victim's soul. So named the "Kiss" due to the need for the dementor to clamp its mouth around that of the victim's. Once Kissed, the souls of the victims are irretrievable. The victim is left with nothing but a body, so long as the vital organs are still working. The Dementor's Kiss is occasionally employed in some countries as a means of legal punishment, and is considered a fate worse than death._

Harry felt a slight chill run down his spine. These were the sort of creatures the Ministry employed to guard Azkaban? And not only that, they were now running around all over the country looking for Black.

Harry turned the page back over and re-read the section on dementors, pausing at the part where a wizard was supposed to lose his powers and his sanity if exposed too long. Well, Black was definitely insane, but Harry was sure the man hadn't lost any of his powers.

Harry shut the book and stuffed it back into place on the shelf, sighing. If the dementors were after Black, it would explain why they were in Diagon Alley. But why then would they go after himself? Harry got a brief mental image of the black cloaked figure sucking out someone's soul and shuddered. As horrible as Black's crimes were, Harry couldn't quite imagine someone deserving to have their soul sucked out. Voldemort, maybe, but surely Azkaban was punishment enough–especially if the criminals were drained of all their happy thoughts.

Harry laid back down on the bed, a heavy weight on his mind.

* * *

Sirius cut the ignition to his motorbike and walked through the rickety gate that marked the lane toward the Potters' house. Sirius held his helmet under one arm and knocked with the other. As he waited for a response, Sirius examined several seedlings growing from pots on the porch and figured Lily was trying her hand at something new after the disastrous experiment with blueberries.

Sirius rang the doorbell again, waiting expectantly. When there was still no response, he tried the door and found it unlocked.

"Prongs?" he called, stepping inside the entryway and looking around the silent house. "You here, mate? Lily?"

When there was still no answer, Sirius set his helmet down on a nearby table and walked down the hallway. "Are you lot home?" Sirius rounded a corner and stopped dead, his blood suddenly cold.

James was lying on the floor, spread-eagled and a dull glint to his vacant eyes. Sirius rushed over to him, desperately searching in vain for a pulse. Fear and horror caused Sirius' limbs to seize up and his vision to blur. Realizing what must have happened, Sirius ran up the flight of stairs two at a time. At the top, Lily's fiery red hair could be seen spilling onto the floor from Harry's doorway.

Forcing his legs to move and focusing very hard on not losing the contents of his stomach, Sirius moved toward the bedroom, afraid of what he would find in there. However, the piercing cry of a baby suddenly rang out, and Sirius' legs almost gave away in relief. Sirius stumbled forward and found Harry lying in his crib, cheeks glistening with tears. With shaking hands, Sirius picked Harry up from the crib. The baby stopped crying at the touch and gazed up at Sirius quizzically. Sirius frowned, and so did Harry.

This wasn't right, Sirius thought dully. This isn't what happened. Hagrid had gotten there first.

Sirius looked around the room, and suddenly the shadows began to shift. Sirius heard a yell from downstairs, and vaguely thought of James. Hurrying out of the room, Sirius felt the unmistakable cold and froze. Dementors were swarming around James' body, except that it was no longer James. A teenaged Harry lay motionless on the floor, glasses askew.

Sirius stood frozen at the top of the stairs. He looked down at the bundle in his arms, and saw that baby Harry was gone, leaving Sirius holding nothing more than an empty blanket. Sirius dropped it and rushed down the stairs toward Harry, but a dementor had already lowered its hood and was inches away from clamping its jaws around Harry...

Sirius jerked awake, gasping for air. It took him a moment to figure out where he was, and he sighed shakily as his surroundings became familiar. Sirius rolled over onto his elbow and weakly pushed himself up, yanking the moth-eaten blanket off of himself. Sirius ran his hands through his hair, which had become damp with sweat. He pressed the heels of his hands against his temples, trying to force the image of Harry and the dementors away.

Sirius sighed and checked his watch. It was a quarter past five in the morning, and he had only been able to fall asleep three hours before. Resolving to stay awake lest he should have another nightmare, Sirius got to his feet and headed out of the drawing room and down the dimly-lit corridor. Sirius had given Harry his old bedroom and, not bothering to decontaminate a second one, decided to sleep on the davenport in the only other somewhat clean room of the house.

After a long shower, Sirius headed downstairs to the basement kitchen, meaning to go over his intended journey before waking Harry up. He set a kettle of water over the stove to boil and sat down heavily at the wooden table where all his papers still lay.

Sirius had been mentally kicking himself the past two days for bringing Harry here. In retrospect, it would have been smarter to have left Harry at a place like the Leaky Cauldron, but Sirius had panicked at the arrival of the dementors. He had cursed himself for being unable to think straight, but now he had to figure out what to do with Harry. Sirius considered returning him to Hogwarts or Diagon Alley, but knew he would never make it. It was hard enough traveling through London alone, never mind doing it with a disgruntled teenager who believed you to be a murderer and a Death Eater.

Sirius decided that he would have to keep Harry with him until the worst of the chaos died down and it would be safe to take Harry to Hogwarts. As overjoyed as Sirius was at seeing his godson, he knew he had to get rid of Harry as soon as possible. It was tempting to tell Harry the truth, but Sirius knew it would be easier for both of them if he let Harry continue to believe that he was a murderer, as painful as it was.

Convinced he had the map memorized by now, Sirius stuffed everything away in his pocket and headed upstairs to wake Harry, knowing that today was going to be a very long day. He knocked sharply on his old bedroom door and paused for a response Sirius knew he was unlikely to receive. Sirius unlocked the bedroom door, bracing himself for the probability that Harry would charge at him again. Harry's last attack had left a considerable sore spot on the back of Sirius' head, and while Sirius had to commend Harry on his attempts at escape, it was not something he wanted to repeat.

As Sirius switched on the bedroom light, he was surprised and a little relieved to find Harry sound asleep on the middle of the four-poster. Harry was still fully dressed–complete with shoes–and Sirius had the impression that Harry had fallen asleep against his will. Sirius moved toward the bed but stopped himself halfway, realizing that being woken up by a presumed murderer would be a rather rude awakening. Instead, Sirius aimed his wand at the old alarm clock on the bedside table, and a moment later, it began to ring shrilly. Harry jerked awake and looked around sleepily for the source of the noise. His gaze fell on Sirius, who silenced the alarm with another flick of his wand.

"Good morning," said Sirius, pocketing his wand.

Harry sat up and glared at him, putting on his glasses. Sirius noticed his hair stood straight up just as James' had always done in the morning.

"We're leaving in an hour, so come downstairs and get some breakfast," said Sirius, rubbing a hand tiredly over the side of his face.

Harry did as he was told in mutinous silence, grabbing Regulus' old jumper as he went. Sirius stood back to allow Harry to pass, not quite trusting Harry to refrain from jumping him at the stairs. Sirius could see Harry staring at the mounted elf heads as they descended the stairs and felt a twinge of embarrassment. He quickly shook it off and directed Harry down the poorly-lit hallway toward the basement kitchen.

"Have a seat," said Sirius, gesturing absentmindedly toward the table as he moved to boil more water on the stove. He heard a chair scrape and knew that Harry had obeyed. Perfectly convinced he was going to receive no conversation from Harry, Sirius began to cook breakfast in total silence. He briefly considered asking how Harry liked his eggs, but figured Harry wouldn't tell him anyway. Sirius settled for cooking them the way he had always liked them, and threw sausages and tomatoes onto another pan.

Once the meal was cooked and the kitchen thoroughly smelled like breakfast, Sirius set a plate of food on the table and kept the other on the counter. Harry shot his breakfast a look, but said nothing. When Sirius returned a moment later with tea and silverware, Harry was still staring at it.

"Remember what I said about poison?" said Sirius, a trace of annoyance in his voice as he held a fork in front of Harry until the boy took it. Harry gave Sirius another dark glare, but poked experimentally at his eggs anyway. Satisfied that Harry would at least eat, Sirius leaned against the sink and held his plate as he ate. Normally he would sit at the table, but Sirius didn't want to incite Harry more than necessary.

Sirius had always been an adept cook, a skill he had learned shortly after running away, but found it difficult to eat anything after his escape from Azkaban. After over a decade of surviving off little more than flavorless mush, Sirius found that regular food was usually too rich and often made him nauseous. It had gotten better with time though, and Sirius was able to force down a small portion of breakfast and a second cup of tea before he set his dishes in the basin-like sink.

Sirius shot a glance at Harry out of the corner of his eye and was pleased to see that the boy had eaten everything on his plate. "There's a little more, if you want," Sirius offered.

Harry pushed his plate away in answer, not looking at him. Sirius took that as his hint and set Harry's dishes in the sink as well. He turned on the tap to wash them, and said conversationally to Harry, "There's a bathroom on the second floor that isn't giving off orange water. You can take a shower while I clean up." When he didn't hear Harry so much as adjust in his chair, Sirius added, "You don't have to, but I'm not sure when you're going to be able to get another one. Might as well do it now."

There was a long pause, and Sirius figured Harry was going to continue the silent treatment all day. _Well, _Sirius thought dully. _It's better than attacking me. _

"Why are you doing this?" Harry asked after several minutes.

Sirius almost jumped and turned to look at Harry in surprise. Harry was still seated at the table, and he was giving Sirius the same look Regulus used to give him when they were young: an expression of combined anger and confusion. "Doing what?"

Harry raised his eyebrows. "Maybe it's just me," he began slowly, looking around the dismal kitchen. "But I never imagined Voldemort's highest supporter to cook me a hot breakfast and worry about my comfort."

Sirius frowned. He supposed it did look rather strange, but he wasn't exactly willing to deprive Harry of food and a bed just to make it more believable he was a Death Eater. Sirius turned back to the dishes and tried in an offhand voice, "Perhaps you haven't met enough of us, then."

"Why do you do that?" Harry continued. "Why do you deflect half of my questions?"

"As your kidnaper, I hardly think I need to answer them."

"I'm just trying to figure you out."

Sirius shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable with the conversation. "There's nothing to know. I'm sure you've been told the whole story."

"What story?"

"You, your parents. You obviously knew who I was, so I'm sure whoever told you about Voldemort threw my name into the mix once or twice."

"My parents?" Harry asked suddenly. "What do you know about my parents?"

Sirius accidentally squeezed the glass he was holding too hard and it burst, cutting deeply into his just-healed hand. Sirius swore under his breath and reached into his pocket for his wand, holding his bleeding hand under the stream of water. With a single tap the bleeding stopped, but Sirius was still left with an angry-looking cut on the back of his hand in nearly the exact same place his old injury had been.

"Nothing," Sirius finally said in a dismissive voice. His head was buzzing, and his throat felt like it was going to close up. Whoever explained to Harry about his parents' deaths had clearly left Sirius out of it, something he had not been expecting. Well, it did explain why Harry hadn't tried to kill Sirius at any rate. Sirius had wondered why Harry wasn't angrier.

"But you just said–"

"No," said Sirius in the same tone, turning off the tap and drying his hands on a ragged dish towel. "Are you going to shower or not?"

Harry shot Sirius a furious glare before silently marching away from the table. Sirius followed, still in shock that no one had told Harry the full story. Well, their version of events, anyway.

Harry fumed in the hallway while Sirius rummaged through the medicine cabinet for another bandage for his hand. Remembering something, Sirius poked his head out and said, "How is your arm healing up?"

As expected, Harry ignored him, looking determinedly straight ahead with his arms crossed.

"Fantastic," said Sirius, turning back to the medicine cabinet and closing the grimy glass door. Wordlessly, Sirius turned on the serpent-shaped taps to the shower. While he waited for the water to heat up, Sirius dug around in the linen closet for the cleanest-looking towel. He shook it out and inspected it; the towel looked presentable enough, but Sirius placed a cleaning charm on it anyway. Sirius set it on the counter and checked the water one more time before exiting the bathroom. Without looking at Harry, Sirius told him he had fifteen minutes before they would leave.

Harry slammed the door shut and Sirius ignored it as he turned into the drawing room. He had an old leather backpack his father used to carry on hiking trips, and began to stuff it with the small pile of necessities he had collected the previous night. Luckily the pack was charmed, and Sirius was able to fit two sleeping packs, a set of cookware, a basic first aid kit, a multi-purpose knife, and various other objects inside with ease. Sirius' father used to own a collapsable tent that went with the pack, but Sirius had no luck in his search for it. Sirius tossed the bag onto the davenport and headed upstairs to rummage through Regulus' old bedroom for a spare change of clothes for Harry to use. Regulus had always been shorter than Sirius, and his clothes fit Harry better than his own would have.

When he returned to the drawing room, he could hear Harry turning off the taps to the shower. Sirius stuffed the assortment of clothes into the pack and buckled it shut. He was double-checking his jacket pockets when a surly Harry entered the room. Verifying that Crowley's book was nestled safely away, Sirius looked to Harry. "You ready?"

* * *

A/N: A big thanks to everyone who's taken the time to review this story thus far. I appreciate the feedback, and I love hearing everyone's suggestions and thoughts!


	9. Questions

Chapter nine:

Penn decided it would be easier to just stay at the Ministry. He had given his House-Elf orders to bring in fresh clothes each day and pick up the soiled ones. Every time Penn walked into a restroom, there were various haggard-looking Ministry employees brushing their teeth or shaving over the sinks, the result of staying at the Ministry for days in a row. Irritated custodians finally added magical extensions to the restrooms, creating shower stalls and claw-footed bathtubs for the over-worked employees. Family members had taken to sending hundreds of owls carrying casseroles and other hot dishes to their spouses. This was initially welcomed by Ministry employees, but soon became a hazard as the owls would usually pick at the food or drop it on the heads of exhausted wizards in the entrance hall.

While nearly everyone else spent a majority of their time at the office, Penn was almost always chasing leads, going from one village to the next. When Penn arrived at Knockturn Alley, he came across the most bizarre crime scene. A questionable import shop had been partially destroyed, leaving its owner unconscious and without any memory of what happened. Dementors, who had been attracted by the chaos, were swarming around Diagon Alley in agitation, and the few witnesses present had all given conflicting reports. Some said they saw a group of black-cloaked wizards while others were certain there was only Sirius Black. Either way, Penn knew that Death Eaters had been involved because the Dark Mark had been burned deeply into the brick wall across from the destroyed shop.

"We need to set up a guard around the alley," directed Penn, stepping over the bright orange beam of light that marked the perimeter of the crime scene. "We need to keep the press away; we don't need the _Prophet _getting a picture of that Mark. Has Barty arrived yet?" Penn asked, turning to Kingsley, who was already there.

"No, but he's on his way," said Kingsley heavily. "He was dealing with a lead in Albania when this happened. Something about Black and a group of dragons."

"What about the shopkeeper? Has anyone talked to him yet?"

"We tried to, but he's completely out of it. We can't tell if it was a Confounding Charm or a result of the attack. He's on his way to St. Mungo's now, so hopefully they'll be able to get something out of him. The other Aurors are getting statements from the witnesses, but it doesn't look good. They all saw different things."

"Fantastic," said Penn sarcastically, moving to examine the enormous burn in the alley wall. He stared at it for a moment, running a finger through the deep grooves. The brick was still hot where it had been burned. "Whoever left this here did it for a reason. The shop is hardly known for dallying in Muggle artifacts, so it wasn't just a display of the Death Eaters's usual terrorism. The ones involved must have had some personal problem with him."

"Then why not just kill him?" Kingsley asked. "It would have left a stronger message."

Penn sighed, running a hand over his unshaven face. "I don't know. Unless it wasn't the shopkeeper they were after. He could have just been in the way."

"If it was someone else, they would have left the body," said Kingsley knowingly. "Unless they wanted him alive. It would explain why they left the Dark Mark behind like this, rather than shooting it into the sky and terrorizing all of London."

"Check back with Missing Persons," said Penn, straightening up and looking around the crowded alleyway. Aurors and other Ministry officials were teeming around the small street, photographing the scene and trying to shoo away nosy reporters. Near the mouth of the alley, Penn could see a junior Auror attempting to set up an Impenetrable Shield Charm against the reporters. "See if anyone went missing around the same time and place. And get a team to interview all the shopkeepers on this block."

"Are we treating this as a kidnapping case?" Kingsley asked, stepping aside so the forensic team could photograph the Dark Mark. The photographer's ancient-looking camera emitted an acrid cloud of purple smoke each time a photo was taken. Penn swatted it away, grimacing at the smell.

"We'll treat it as one until we can prove otherwise," said Penn, stepping further away. "The Death Eaters wouldn't go to this kind of effort for just intimidating a man and then leaving him alone."

"Sir!"

Penn and Kingsley turned to see a young, purple-haired junior Auror running toward them. She almost tripped over a small dip in the ground and crash into the photographer, but managed to regain her balance and hurry toward them.

"Mr. Penn, I have a report for you straight from the Ministry!" she said breathlessly before she had quite reached them.

"Well?" said Penn a little impatiently, frowning at her.

The young woman stopped just inches from them. She leaned in to Penn's ear, holding his shoulders for balance as she had not quite caught her breath. "Harry Potter is reported missing," she whispered. "He–"

"What?" Penn yelled, grabbing the woman's arms and turning her to face him.

"Shhh!" said the woman, turning around to look at the rest of the team, who had looked up at Penn's yell. The photographer was staring at them, frowning. "Well, carry on!" she said, blowing at the smelly cloud that had wafted toward her. She glanced at Kingsley, then said in an undertone back to Penn, "He was staying at the Leaky Cauldron. The barman says Harry goes out nearly every day, but never came back this evening."

It was all Penn could do to keep from punching the wall in frustration. He was silent for several long moments, trying to calm himself. Finally, he said, "Thank you. You were right to keep the information quiet. Who else knows?"

"Just me," she said a little proudly. "All the interns are stuck at the Ministry, but I'm the one who received the owl."

Penn turned to Kingsley. "Take her with you to speak to the barman. And don't let anyone else find out until we can confirm this. Not even Barty. I'll tell him myself. Report back to me as soon as you have something."

The woman didn't bother to hide her look of joy at being given a real Auror assignment. She followed Kingsley out of the alleyway, this time tripping over the pothole and knocking the photographer over. His camera crashed to the ground in a mix of purple smoke and sparks, and the old man swore loudly. Kingsley helped Tonks to her feet and Penn watched them wordlessly as they disappeared around the alley's exit.

Penn remained at the scene for another hour, interviewing all of the possible witnesses personally. Crouch had arrived shortly afterwards, and snapped orders to the Aurors to arrest the next reporter who tried to cross the perimeter. The young Auror finally managed to get his charm to work, and the furious journalists were unable to get a photograph–magical or muggle–of the crime scene.

Crouch reached Penn and sighed. Penn almost frowned at the sight of the man; Crouch was in a fresh suit and clean-shaven, but he looked like he hadn't eaten or slept in days. "Who are we thinking?"

"Honestly?" said Penn in an undertone, looking around at the chaotic scene in the alley. "I think it was Black."

Crouch rubbed the corners of his mouth, then said, "What's the situation?"

"Well, the front of the import shop was blown out. The shopkeeper–Crowley, I think they said his name was–is in St. Mungo's. Doesn't remember a thing. He's the only injury–mostly superficial scrapes and burns. The witnesses have all given us conflicting reports, but it's clear _someone _was here a few hours ago." Penn debated telling Crouch the news about Harry Potter, but decided it would be best until he could confirm the report.

"How do we know it's not a business deal gone bad?" Crouch asked. "I've been to this shop before, and I'm sure I've cited it a hundred times for illegal imports."

"Because of this," said Penn, leading Crouch deeper into the alley and pointing at the Mark.

Crouch frowned, running his fingers along it. "It goes at least an inch into the stone." He stared at it for a long moment, then said, "They're obviously trying to leave a message. I just wonder what it is. It would be stupid to leave it behind for no reason other than announcing their existence." He straightened up, and added, "Well, I'm with you on Black. No Death Eater who managed to avoid Azkaban would bother to make such a scene–not for so little."

Penn checked his watch tiredly. "I'm heading to St. Mungo's in a few minutes. The Healers owled us and said they may have made some headway through a Confundus Charm."

Crouch turned back to face the shop. The glass and splintered wood had been swept up, and a team was already in place to board up the shattered windows. "I wonder why Black would come here," he said slowly. "He wouldn't do it just to announce his presence, not when he's been trying so hard to lay low. This was personal."

"I have the interns researching any link Crowley might have with the Death Eaters, particularly Black," said Penn.

Crouch turned back to Penn. "I'll go with you to the hospital. Has Fudge heard of this?"

"Probably."

"Well, hopefully he's too busy dealing with the press," said Crouch with dislike. "Otherwise we might be expected to loan out some Aurors to stand guard over Knockturn Alley as well." He looked around at the street. "What a mess."

Just like Diagon Alley, St. Mungo's Hospital was crammed with journalists. Penn and Crouch marched past them, ignoring requests for information.

"Is it true Sirius Black was behind the attack?"

"Has Black rounded up other Death Eaters?"

"Does the Ministry have any leads?"

"No comment," said Penn flatly, following Crouch through the crowd. They briefly showed their badges to the Auror guard blocking the corridor and stepped through a set of double doors. Instantly, the noise level was cut in half.

A woman in a bright green uniform appeared, her blond hair pulled back in a sloppy knot. She looked just as exhausted as Penn felt, but Penn immediately lost all sympathy for her when she rounded on them angrily.

"All night I've had to deal with them!" she snapped, coming toward them.

"We don't like them either, but we can't force them to leave until they break a law," said Penn complacently. "What's the update on Crowley?"

The woman glared at them, pink in the cheeks, but opened up the chart she carried and said, "Well, he was obviously hit with a powerful Confundus Charm. We managed to break through it, but then we realized the man had at least two Memory Modification Charms underneath that."

Penn's hands immediately went to rub his eyes, a reflex he had been doing a lot lately.

"Was our team able to get anything out of him?"

"Yes," she said with dislike. "Your Aurors were able to deduce that Crowley _had _been attacked, but by one person."

Penn and Crouch exchanged a look, their suspicions confirmed.

"However," she continued impatiently, as though guessing their thoughts. "It wasn't Sirius Black."

"What?"

"Crowley was not able to identify his attacker, but when prompted with Black's name, Crowley flatly denied it," she explained.

"How would we know that's not part of the Modification Charm?" Crouch demanded.

The woman looked at him, an affronted expression on her face. "Because," she said shortly. "I personally removed the Confundus Charm, and I can tell the difference between a memory that's been modified and one that hasn't been touched. What's more," she continued, "Crowley said that there were multiple people in the shop. He wasn't able to identify who, though."

Penn and Crouch frowned. "But how is that possible, if only one person attacked him?" Penn asked.

"Sounds like there were two groups involved," she said. "Crowley was likely only a bystander. His memory was heavily modified, and most likely by whichever Death Eater left the Mark burned into the wall."

"How do you know about that?" Penn asked in spite of himself.

The woman rolled her eyes. "Everyone knows about that."

"We would like to speak to Crowley," said Crouch stiffly.

The woman turned on her heel wordlessly and led them down the corridor. She opened a door on their left, and stood back to let them pass. Inside, a dazed-looking Crowley sat on a white hospital bed, surrounded by Healers and two Aurors. Penn, who usually had a gentler approach than Crouch, sat down on the edge of the bed so that he was almost eye-level with Crowley.

"Can you tell us what happened?"

Crowley's gaze drifted off slightly, as though he was searching hard for memories that weren't there. "My shop was blown out," he said slowly.

"Do you know who did it?"

Crowley's gaze snapped back up to Penn. He stared at him quizzically for a long moment, then said, "No. There were too many people."

"Did you recognize any of them?"

"Yes," said Crowley. His voice was confident, but his expression was still one of deep confusion. "They took him. Weston."

"Who is Weston?" Crouch asked curtly.

But Crowley just shook his head. His voice was so quiet it was barely above a whisper. "He's trying to bring him back."

"Bring who back?" Penn asked gently, frowning.

Crowley leaned in until he was only inches from Penn, and whispered, "You-Know-Who."

Penn and Crouch exchanged looks, then Penn said more urgently, "Mr. Crowley, who is trying to bring You-Know-Who back?"

"I don't know," said Crowley, sounding dazed again. He shook his head deeply. "Yes I do...it's _him._"

"Who's him?" Penn asked sharply.

Crowley gazed around the room as though to check that the man in question wasn't there. "Weston. He's working for someone."

Penn frowned. "Who?"

But Crowley's information had stopped there. The multiple Memory Modification and Confounding Charms had muddled Crowley's memory of events, but Penn and Crouch had received enough alarming information to continue the investigation.

It was well past midnight when they returned to the Ministry, and Penn was too distracted by the possibility of the Boy-Who-Lived gone missing to focus on the case at hand. Luckily Crouch would rather brood in his office than discuss tactical details about locating Weston, and Penn was free to pace his own office nervously while he waited for Kingsley to report back.

* * *

It was hot, and Harry had removed as many layers of clothing as he could without stripping completely. His feet were already aching, and Harry had no idea where they were. Black walked several paces ahead of him, and Harry noticed in annoyance that Black didn't seem fazed by any of it. He had removed his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves, but Black hadn't made a single complaint about the heat and trudged through the wheat field at a pace that didn't seem fair.

"Why do we have to walk?" Harry asked dully.

Black jumped at being spoken to, but quickly recovered. Harry noticed Black did this every time he said something, and imagined Black wasn't used to being around people. "Because brooms are too obvious," he said.

"That can't be the only magical way to travel," said Harry, frowning. He wasn't sure if Black was being facetious or not.

"It isn't," Black agreed without turning around. "But I'm trying to avoid magical transportation as much as possible. It's too easy to trace."

"So we have to walk through the middle of nowhere?"

"Yes."

"What about that disapparition, or whatever?" Harry asked, remembering the uncomfortable experience of apparition. Black had done it without warning, and Harry had given a nonsensical "Gah!" before he felt like his entire body was being fit through a keyhole. When they arrived in the middle of nowhere, Harry promptly vomited in the grass.

"Disapparition is complicated enough with a single, determined wizard," said Black. "Nevermind side-along apparition with a very disgruntled teenager, especially since I haven't done it in twelve years. You're lucky you weren't splinched."

"Yeah, yeah," said Harry, rolling his eyes. "I'm crazy for not wanting to be kidnapped, right?"

It had only been several hours since they left the strange house Black had been hiding in, but Harry felt like it had been a week. While Harry didn't know where they were, he was certain that they had left the UK. All morning, Harry had tried to escape at every opportunity. Black had obviously planned for this, because he had placed some kind of barrier charm on Harry that didn't allow him to get more than twenty feet away from Black. Harry found this out the hard way; when they exited the bizarre Dark house that morning, Harry had taken off running down the street only to slam into an invisible wall after a few seconds. Eventually Black had disapparated without warning, removing Harry from any trace of civilization, magical or muggle.

In the distance, Harry could see a stone farmhouse poking out from amongst the hills. Black seemed to be making a straight line for it, and Harry wondered what on earth that house held that would be of use to Black. Or perhaps Black was tired and intended to blast the occupants out.

"Where are you taking us?" Harry asked a little breathlessly, swatting a bee away.

"This is my family's old summer home," said Black after a long pause.

Harry stared at him, taken aback. Black had never answered Harry's questions so concisely, and Harry briefly wondered if Black was lying. "Why?" he asked slowly.

"Because it's infinitely more comfortable than the other house," continued Black. "For one, there are no demented House-Elves muttering in the darkness. Besides, it's a lot easier to find. The other house is Unplottable, so it would have been no good to write to Dumbledore and tell him the address where you could be picked up. That, and I'd rather keep the other house a secret, anyway."

Now Harry was sure Black was lying. He shook his head and his eyes narrowed. "What?"

Black turned to look at Harry, his eyebrow raised. "Did you really think I was going to take you with me everywhere? No offense, but it's hard to travel with an angry teenager."

"So you're really just dumping me here?"

"Yes."

Harry looked around the vast wheat field. There wasn't another house anywhere in sight. "What makes you think I'm just going to stay and wait there?"

"What, are you saying you don't want Dumbledore to get you?"

"I'm saying I don't believe you," said Harry, glaring at Black's back. "How do I know you're not dumping me there for someone else to kill me?"

"Would it help if I told you that wasn't the plan?" Black asked, adjusting the pack on his shoulders.

"I still wouldn't believe you," Harry told him.

"Well, I suppose I'll just have to live with that," said Black calmly. "But you are getting dropped off here, and Dumbledore is going to come get you. I imagine he'll suspect it's a trap, so try not to cause too much trouble or you'll spook the Ministry when they come calling."

"I won't stay," said Harry defiantly.

"Where would you go?"

"I'm not going to tell you that."

"Well," said Black heavily. "You don't speak French, so it'll be hard to find someone to help you."

"Doesn't matter," countered Harry, wiping the sweat from his brow. "I'll go to the police."

"Good luck finding them," said Black, a hint of amusement in his voice. "You don't even know where we are."

"Well, apparently we're in a French-speaking country," said Harry childishly.

Black ignored him and continued walking. That was another thing Black did a lot; he was prone to extended silences of brooding, and would fall silent in the middle of a conversation. Harry didn't necessarily mind Black's silence, but it was certainly strange, especially when Black's expression became shut off and dark.

Harry frowned, his brow creased in thought. Assuming Black was telling the truth, why on earth would he bother letting Harry go? It fit with Black's explanation that he had taken Harry reluctantly, but Harry hardly believed that story, either. Black was a Death Eater and Voldemort's biggest supporter. Why would he suddenly be concerned with Harry's welfare? Even if he was a nuisance to Black, why didn't the man just kill Harry and be done with it? Why go out of his way to return Harry safely, especially when it meant Black's risk of being found was greatly increased?

Black's behavior on the whole was completely bizarre, Harry thought. Black had let slip that he knew Harry's parents but then quickly denied it. He took pains to make sure Harry was fed and relatively comfortable, but never once denied working for Voldemort. Strangest of all, Black had gone out of his way to rescue Harry in Diagon Alley and was now going out of his way again to return him.

"If you really are returning me," Harry began again after several minutes of silence. "Why have you been trying to stop me from escaping?"

Black turned to glance at Harry as though he had forgotten anyone else was there. "Because I doubt you'd keep yourself safe," he replied, looking ahead again.

"I can take care of myself," said Harry heatedly, thinking of the Chamber of Secrets the previous year.

"Is that what you call what happened in Diagon Alley?"

"That was different," retorted Harry. "I would have been fine if it weren't for the dementors. Who were looking for _you, _no doubt."

"That's true," said Black slowly, his voice suddenly serious. "But dementors don't distinguish between who's innocent and who is not."

"You never explained to me what that screaming was about," Harry reminded him, even though Black had made no promise to do so.

Black sighed. For a moment Harry was sure he wasn't going to reply, but then Black said slowly, "She would have been a memory from your past–"

"I told you, I don't–"

"You may not remember it _now,_" said Black. "But your memories are always there, even if you can't recall them. They're just locked away somewhere in the back of your mind to make room for more important memories, or ones that are more recent."

Harry frowned, thinking. "She was saying 'not Harry'," he continued, thinking aloud. Black didn't turn around, and so Harry added, "The only person that could be is my Mum, but that's impossible–I was only a year old."

"Most people probably wouldn't have memories from such a young age," said Black heavily. "But if it's significant enough..."

"I know you knew my parents," Harry told him, still looking at the back of Black's head. "You mentioned them the other morning. I saw your name on the door in the bedroom you locked me in–you were in Gryffindor, too. And judging by the year on that old calendar, probably at the same time as my parents."

"How long are you going to continue asking me about that?" said Black, still not turning around.

"Until you admit it."

"That's not happening."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Okay, fine. Then do you want to tell me why you became a Death Eater if you weren't in Slytherin?"

Black actually chuckled at that. "The world isn't divided into good people and Death Eaters–and not all Death Eaters were Slytherins, though I can understand why you'd make that assumption. And you shouldn't be asking me those kinds of questions."

"Why?" Harry asked dully, fanning his shirt against his hot skin. "I can't ask a Death Eater why he became a Death Eater?"

"How do you know about Death Eaters, anyway?" Black asked. "They would have been before your time."

"My friend's dad works for the Ministry, and he's told me about them," said Harry, thinking of his past conversations with Ron when they suspected Malfoy's father had been a Death Eater. "And I've met two of them."

Black turned to face Harry, frowning. "When did that happen?"

"Well, once was when my old professor had Voldemort sticking out of the back of his head—"

"_What_?" Black had come to a complete stop, whipping around to look right at Harry.

"Yeah, they were trying to get the Philosopher's Stone," said Harry, a little taken aback by Black's reaction. He stopped walking to maintain several feet between himself and Black. "Dumbledore was hiding it at Hogwarts. And Voldemort was sharing a body with Quirrell, because I guess he can't survive on his own or something. Anyway, they tried to get the stone, but I beat them to it—"

"You—_what_?" said Black angrily. He looked as though he was debating which sentence to say first. "Why would you get in the way of something like that? Voldemort may have been too weak to do anything to you, but a Death Eater—"

"Like I said, I can take care of myself," said Harry heatedly, annoyed at Black's patronizing tone. "They didn't get it. Quirrell died and Voldemort disappeared. And who are you to lecture me about being around Death Eaters?"

Black ran his hands along the length of his face, looking as though he was trying to will himself to stay calm. Harry had a hard time trying to comprehend this reaction—why would Black care if Harry had run-ins with Voldemort or other Death Eaters?

"And the second?" Black asked in clipped tones, ignoring Harry's question.

"Malfoy," said Harry, rolling his eyes. "Only we just think he's a Death Eater—he's evil enough to be."

"Lucius Malfoy?"

"Yeah," said Harry with distaste. "His son Draco is in my year. Stupid git."

"Well, I never knew Quirrell, but Malfoy was definitely a Death Eater," said Black heavily. Then he added quickly, "Did he ever try to hurt you?"

"Not really," said Harry slowly, frowning at Black's bizarre concern. "He gave my friend's sister Voldemort's old diary though, and Voldemort possessed her so he could open the Chamber of Secrets last year—"

Black's eyes narrowed at that, and he suddenly looked as menacing as the papers had always made him out to be. Harry took a step backwards, suddenly on his guard. "How many run-ins with Voldemort have you had?" Black demanded angrily.

"Three," said Harry, crossing his arms stubbornly, trying to ignore his pounding heart. "Why do you care?"

Black stared at Harry as though Harry had asked Black why he didn't turn himself in to the Ministry. But instead of replying, Black just turned around and kept on walking.

"Maybe it's because you haven't been around people for over a decade and have forgotten, but usually a conversation is a back and forth thing," said Harry, irritated by Black's abrupt silence. "I've answered your questions, so you should be able to answer mine."

Black ignored Harry, and seemed to quicken his pace to the old house in the distance. Harry had to run several meters to close the gap between himself and Black. As they approached the house, Harry saw that it had the signs of elegance and wealth in spite of the overgrown yard, weathered roof, and neglected garden.

"Wait here," said Black sharply, pulling out his wand and striding forward. Harry did as he was told, not wanting to cross Black when he was obviously in a bad mood. He fanned his shirt against his skin again, watching as Black searched the perimeter and muttered incomprehensible charms before finally entering the house.

Harry looked around the grounds, and figured the property had been in disuse for some time. A narrow lane—nearly obscured by wildflowers and weeds—ran from the side of the house, past a well, and disappeared through the hills in the distance. It was the only road, and Harry figured that it had to lead to civilization at some point.

Black reappeared several minutes later, his expression still dark. He pocketed his wand and said, "You can go inside."

"Oh, good," said Harry sarcastically. "Have you blasted out the occupants already?"

Black ignored him and went to inspect the well. Harry, eager to get out of the hot sun, walked up the cracked stone steps and through the front door.

All the windows had been opened to air out the house, but it still had the distinct mildew smell the previous one carried. Moth-eaten curtains hung from the window frames and all the furniture had been covered with yellowed linen sheets. The dusty floorboards creaked under Harry's step, and Harry was sure he saw a spider the size of a teacup scurry away in the entrance to the tea parlor. Harry moved through the house, trying several rooms before he finally found the kitchen. The portraits on the walls watched Harry as he passed, and Harry tried to pretend he didn't notice.

Harry moved toward the sink and tested the water for any obvious signs of contamination. Like the other house, this one had serpent-shaped taps and intricately engraved snakes in the cupboard doors. Harry wrestled with the rusty tap for a moment before he finally yanked it toward him, but all that came out was a sort of gurgling sound.

"Here," said Black, coming up beside him. Harry jumped a foot in the air; the man was so quiet that Harry hadn't realized Black was there. Black tapped the faucet with his wand, and immediately a clear stream of cool water came out. "I don't think anyone's touched this house since I was fourteen—it has significantly less Dark rubbish in here than the other house, though, so it's probably a lot safer."

Harry glanced around the kitchen, trying to figure out where the glasses would be located. Black seemed to read his mind, for he opened a cabinet on Harry's left and withdrew a crystal glass, engraved with the now-familiar serpent. He inspected it for a second before handing it back to Harry. "I don't think there's any wartcap powder in those cabinets, but it might be a good idea to wash out any dishes you use just in case."

Harry took the glass hesitantly, suddenly aware of the possibility that poison might be laced on the dishes. But Black withdrew a glass of his own, and washed it out before filling it nearly to the brim with water. Harry made sure Black drank his entire glass before touching his own.

Black made Harry sit at the small table in the kitchen while he hastily made dinner with the vegetables he had stolen from the farms they trespassed through. Harry did so, but only because he didn't fancy the idea of wandering through an abandoned Dark wizard's house. With potatoes boiling on the ancient stove, Black soon disappeared and Harry could hear his footsteps throughout the house. Occasionally there came a crash or a thud, shortly followed by the sound of Black cursing something. Harry imagined Black was getting rid of the rodents and other pests, but then he heard a second set of footsteps directly overhead that were definitely heavier than Black's. Once or twice Harry was alarmed enough to consider investigating all the noise, but then remembered Black had taken his wand and left him completely defenseless against cursed wardrobes or spiders the size of dinner plates.

With Black busy fighting the occupants of the house, Harry took the opportunity to investigate the pockets of Black's coat, which he had left behind on the table. Inside were a few interesting but otherwise useless objects: a multi-purpose knife that had more attachments than Harry could count, a folded page of newspaper, a small jar of St. Morgan's Magical Salve, and a dented compass that definitely didn't point north. Harry searched through the fabric for a breast pocket, and found the tattered book Black had spent the previous night looking through. The cover was little more than several sheets of tattered parchment glued together, and the title was incomprehensible. Harry opened it up, and saw immediately that it was in some strange language he had never seen before. If Black was able to make sense of the words, then Harry had to give him credit.

Harry could hear Black coming down the stairs and hastily shoved the book back in his coat just before Black entered the kitchen.

"I cleared out a bedroom and a bathroom," said Black, lifting the lid on one of the pots to check the food's progress. "But I still wouldn't advise looking through the wardrobes or dressers. I'm pretty sure there are doxy eggs in there, and they burst open if disturbed."

Harry raised his eyebrows at him. "And I'm supposed to sleep in this house?"

"You'll be fine," said Black dismissively, waving his wand at the blue flames and causing them to go out. He rummaged through the cabinets and washed two sets of dishes before setting a full plate of food in front of Harry. Harry briefly considered throwing his plate out the window to spite Black, but he was starving and the food smelled wonderful.

Like their other awkward meal, Harry and Black ate in complete silence, with Harry at the table and Black standing near the sink. Black stared moodily into his own plate, which had significantly less food than Harry's. Harry watched as Black gave up eating halfway through and set his dishes in the sink before filling a kettle with water to make tea. Black looked up and saw Harry staring at him, but didn't seem the least perturbed by it. "You should eat," he said, nodding to Harry's half-empty plate.

Harry raised an eyebrow but didn't respond. He thought about reminding Black that he wasn't much more than skin and bones himself, but decided against it. If Black dropped dead of starvation, then it would make Harry's escape much easier.

Once he had finished eating, Harry followed Black upstairs to one of the bedrooms. The sheets that had covered the furniture had been hastily tossed aside in a heap, and Harry heard a slight buzzing coming from the curtains by the open windows. The room smelled musty and there were cobwebs everywhere, but it did look much less ominous than the other house with the mounted elf heads in the stairwell.

"The bathroom is across the hall," said Black expressionlessly. "I put some clean towels in there since the others were chewed up by doxies."

"Hmm," said Harry neutrally. He felt like he was a guest at the strangest hotel, and Black was the demented innkeeper. Harry tossed the clean set of clothes Black had given him onto the four-poster bed listlessly. He heard Black shut the door behind him, and Harry sighed, running his hands along his face. Black didn't lock Harry in the room this time, but Harry was certain there were other kinds of barrier charms around the old house. If he waited until Black was asleep, then he could sneak Black's wand and escape. The old road had to lead into town at some point, and Harry would be able to get help from there.

The plan would only work, of course, if Black actually went to sleep, which he didn't do. Harry tried to occupy himself with a tattered copy of Beetle the Bard he found on the dusty nightstand while he listened at the door, but Black could be heard downstairs in the kitchen. Harry sighed and tossed the old book onto the bed in frustration. He could climb out the window, but Black was guaranteed to hear that. Harry briefly wondered how far he could get before Black caught him. _Not very far, _Harry thought to himself dully. _Not with that stupid barrier charm._

Harry's thoughts drifted to Ron and Hermione, and he wondered how they were doing. They had doubtlessly learned of Harry's disappearance, and he felt a pang of hatred toward Black as his friends probably thought that he was dead. If escape was impossible, then perhaps Harry could find a way to let his friends know that he was alive, that Black hadn't done much more than take him on a bizarre odyssey.

Harry could tear out paper from the book, but he would need something with which to write. Ignoring Black's warnings about disturbing the furniture, Harry began searching through the nightstand, the old writing desk, and finally the wardrobe. Finding nothing, Harry sighed. He doubted whether Black would allow Harry to write to his friends, so it wasn't like Harry could waltz downstairs and search the drawing room.

Not about to be defeated so easily, Harry opened the wardrobe again and searched through all the pockets of the robes and coats inside, sure that a quill or a pen had to be there somewhere. Just as he reached into the folds of the second robe, however, the sleeves suddenly sprang to life and wrapped themselves tightly around Harry's throat. Harry tried to pry the material off, but it wouldn't give. Harry yanked the robe out of the wardrobe and attempted ripping the material, but he couldn't breathe and began to feel light-headed. Harry felt himself meet the floor and he kicked out as he wrestled with the fabric, slamming the wardrobe door loudly. His elbow came into rough contact with the wardrobe and Harry would have sworn loudly if he weren't too busy trying to prevent the robe from killing him.

"_Relashio_!"

The sleeves suddenly sprang away from Harry's throat and he gasped loudly, scrambling away like an upturned crab. Clutching at his throat, Harry turned around wildly to see where the cursed robe had gone. Black was standing in the doorway, and with a sharp jab of his wand, the robe was shoved roughly into the wardrobe. The door slammed shut, and Harry looked up at Black in shock and slight embarrassment at having to be saved again so quickly.

Black looked angry, and Harry could feel his cheeks redden in spite of himself. "I can't leave you alone for one minute without you getting into trouble," Black finally said in an annoyingly patronizing tone.

"You're the one who brought me to this stupid house," Harry grumbled, retrieving his glasses and getting to his feet. He could feel his elbow smarting, and looked down to see that it had been scraped open.

"What were you doing, anyway?" Black demanded.

Harry shot him a withering look. "Nothing."

"Nothing?" Black repeated, pocketing his wand and crossing his arms. "What on earth could have been in that wardrobe that was so interesting you had to deliberately disobey me?"

Harry's eyes narrowed. "Why on earth should I listen to anything you say? Have you forgotten you've kidnapped me and admitted to being a Death Eater?"

Black rolled his eyes. "Go downstairs."

"Why?" Harry asked suspiciously.

"Because obviously you need to be babysat. Your friends would be sad to come all the way here and find you dead because of a wardrobe or something equally stupid."

Harry grabbed his small pile of clothes and shot Black a dark look before marching past him. Black shut the bedroom door a little too loudly and followed Harry down the stairs. Harry hesitated on the landing and Black walked past him, leading the way into a casual-looking sitting room. A fire was lit in the grate, and Harry quickly scanned the mantle for signs of Floo Powder.

"This house isn't connected to the Floo Network, so don't even bother trying. You'd probably set yourself on fire anyway," Black added, obviously guessing Harry's thoughts.

Harry sank onto one of the doxy-eaten davenports, his arms folded rebelliously. Black withdrew the spare cot and blanket from his enchanted pack and tossed it onto the other side of the couch. "You can sleep down here," he said, picking up his coat and rummaging through the pockets. "Here," he added, tossing Harry the jar of St. Morgan's Magical Salve. "Put that on your arm. And add some to your neck as well so you don't bruise. I don't need Dumbledore thinking I've tried to strangle you."

Harry opened the lid and sniffed it, getting a strange whiff of peppermint and honey.

Black sank into the other sofa, staring gloomily into the fire with his arms folded. Next to him was that tattered book he had been carrying, as well as an enormously thick volume that was covered in dust.

"What is that, anyway?" Harry asked, feeling an oddly pleasant tingling from the salve as he massaged it into his arm. Within moments, the scrape began to shrink.

Black turned to see what Harry was referring to. "The big one's a reference on old languages," he said, arms still folded. "I'm trying to figure out what the little book says. My father was fascinated by languages, which is why he forced my brother and me to study them when we were kids. Too bad French is the only one we bothered to pay any attention to, or it would be loads easier to figure out what this says. But luckily I found this old reference, because otherwise we'd have to break into a wizarding library."

"Why are you carrying that thing if you can't read it?" Harry asked, eyebrows raised.

Black gave a strange sort of half-shrug as a reply.

"Just for fun?" Harry asked, an eyebrow raised sardonically.

"Well, as soon as I figure out what this says, then I'll know why I'm carrying it around."

Harry leaned back into the davenport. "That doesn't even make sense."

Black shrugged again, staring into the fire. "Yeah, well, a lot of things don't."

The rest of the night passed in silence. Harry, knowing there was no way to escape with Black sitting in the same room, tried to make himself comfortable on the musty sofa. Harry figured he ought to get as much sleep as possible, because he wasn't going to stop for it once he did get away from Black. While Harry went in and out of sleep for the next several hours, Black sat wide awake by the fire, comparing the tiny worn book to the huge reference.

* * *

A/N: A few things...

The broken compass is, as you might already guess, an idea I stole from Pirates of the Caribbean. I thought that it was something that would totally be found in Harry Potter, and it also explains away Sirius' amazing sense of direction in the books.

Future chapters will explain what went down in Knockturn Alley, so don't worry if it doesn't make complete sense yet. I can't cram too much information into a single chapter.

Lastly, thanks for all your reviews/feedback, and I hope you enjoy the story!


	10. Another Day Full of Dread

Chapter ten:

If the public was in an uproar about Black's escape, it was nothing compared to the news of the Boy-Who-Lived gone missing.

Kingsley and the junior Auror Tonks had interviewed the barman, searched Harry Potter's room, and questioned several shopkeepers before bringing the alarming news to Penn, who had barely made it two steps into the Auror Department. It was the middle of the night, but that didn't stop dozens of memos from zooming in an out and haggard employees chasing every possible lead.

When the news was broken to Fudge, who had been summoned from his Yorkshire home at two in the morning by Penn himself, Fudge looked as though he had just returned from a lengthy trip to Azkaban. The color instantly drained from his face and he looked as though he wished more than anything that Penn was pulling his leg. When it was clear that Fudge was too stunned to speak, Penn continued in a heavy voice, "Our best bet for what happened to Potter is to follow the leads we have on the attack in Knockturn Alley. Everyone we spoke to saw Potter just before the attack happened, so the two have to be linked."

Fudge finally seemed to gain a grip on himself. "Right. Penn, I want you to focus solely on the search for Sirius Black. Delegate what you need to. Potter's bound to be wherever Black is–"

"We don't have any evidence that Black is involved," said Penn, frowning. "We couldn't even place him in Knockturn Alley–no one reported seeing him."

Fudge sighed. "Do you really think it's coincidence? Black's probably too clever to leave a trail straight to himself. I'll bet you my job that Black caused the diversion in Knockturn Alley to throw us off."

Penn sighed heavily. There was no hard evidence to support Fudge's theory, but it wasn't improbable, either. "Crowley told us Weston was working for someone who was plotting to bring You-Know-Who back. Weston was kidnapped, which means whoever took him likely doesn't want the Dark Lord around. Why would Black try to prevent that?"

"Black probably hopes to become the next Dark Lord himself!" said Fudge exasperatedly. "With You-Know-Who gone, he probably realizes he's in a position to take power for himself!"

Penn sighed. It was possible, but it just didn't sound like Black. "Then why hasn't he shown himself? Why is he hiding in the shadows and secretly kidnapping people?"

Fudge threw his hands in the air in frustration. "I can't be expected to fathom how a mad man's mind works."

The next day, however, Penn quickly came to an alarming end in his search for Weston. The man's body had turned up in the Thames, washed ashore in a muggle park. It was clear magic had killed the man, and once Penn was able to pry the case from the hands of the London Metropolitan Police, it didn't take long to deduce who the killer was. The Dark Mark had been burned onto the man's forehead, which only reinforced Fudge's theory that Black was somehow involved.

The junior Aurors had been given the task of researching everything they could on the man named Oliver Weston. Within hours, it was discovered that Weston had been in Azkaban twice, serving minor sentences for trivial offenses. Furthermore, Weston had long been suspected of working with the Death Eaters at the height of Voldemort's power, but the Ministry had never been able to prove it. So to find the corpse of a man considered an ally to the Death Eaters with the Dark Mark burned into his skin was rather alarming. Once again, Black was a popular suspect, but there was a lack of hard evidence beyond the Dark Mark.

However, Penn was unable to dwell on the case of Weston for too long. He had given the matter to Dawlish to deal with, and kept Kingsley on the hunt for Black. Tonks, who had proven herself to be quite clever and talented despite her age and alarming clumsiness, was allowed to follow Kingsley around. Some of the older Aurors were annoyed that a junior Auror who wasn't even done with her training was allowed to work so closely on Black's case, but Penn quickly put a stop to it. At this point, it was irrelevant who had seniority or experience–Penn needed everyone he had, and if a junior Auror proved herself to be more useful than some of her older counterparts, then so be it.

As for the rest of the Ministry, it had come to the point where all incoming post was heavily screened, allowing only official documents and notes from family to trickle through. Whenever Penn was in the main hall of the Ministry, he saw that dozens of interns–fresh out of Hogwarts, no doubt–had been given the task of sorting through the mail. All of them had singed clothing and burnt eyebrows, but looked happy enough to be assisting the Ministry. Penn knew that had been Fudge's doing; shortly after news of Harry Potter's disappearance made its way into every wizarding paper in the world, Fudge had appealed to the public for assistance wherever possible. Hundreds of wartime-like jobs were created, and zealous Hogwarts graduates had been recruited in a matter of days. Most of the work involved unpleasant tasks like sorting through Howlers and poisoned envelopes, but after three days, another few hundred witches and wizards had signed up.

Penn sat down heavily at his desk, intending to get a quick ten minute nap. Before he could remove his jacket and loosen his tie, however, Dawlish appeared in the doorway.

"I have an update on the Knockturn Alley case," he said, holding a thick folder. He handed it to Penn to look through, and said, "Crowley's being admitted to the long-term care unit at St. Mungo's. The Healers said the damage to his memory is too extensive. As for Weston, the hospital has just given us his autopsy report. He was definitely killed by Dark Magic, and probably only hours before the muggle police found his body. However, the forensic Healer said Weston's body also showed traces of torture, particularly the Cruciatus Curse. Whoever took Weston wanted information out of him, and killed him once they got it."

Penn ran his hands through his hair distractedly as he skimmed through the autopsy report.

"The case ends there," said Dawlish with distaste, sighing. "We have no other leads to go by. Crowley can't tell us a damned thing that makes sense, so we have no idea who killed Weston. We've already tried Legilimency on Crowley, but his brain's a mess."

Penn was silent for a moment, mind blank, then said, "What about the witnesses?"

"We've followed every lead we got from them, and we're still at a dead-end."

"Harry Potter went missing from Diagon Alley at almost the exact same time the villagers reported the attack," said Penn. "And I know we don't have evidence, but we have to assume the two are connected. It's likely that more than one person is involved, if half the witness reports say that there were multiple wizards. Do we have a physical description from any of them?"

"No, sir," said Dawlish. "Just that they were men, all in black hooded traveling cloaks."

"Whoever they were, they didn't want to be seen, even in Knockturn Alley," said Penn heavily. "They wanted to keep their affair quiet, but they still left a message burned into the wall. There has to be more people involved, not just Weston. Unless it was personal, Death Eaters have never made their attacks so hush-hush. Look into Weston's life–talk to his family, his friends, people from work–anyone you can think of. Whatever happened in Knockturn Alley doesn't stop at Weston."

"Yes, sir," said Dawlish, taking the folder back from Penn and exiting his office. Just as he slid through the door, another wizard slipped in, this time one of Fudge's new-hire secretaries.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," he said, looking timid. "But I have a message from the Minister to pass on. Due to Harry Potter's disappearance, he doesn't think the dementors are needed to guard Hogwarts."

"Good," said Penn, straightening up in his chair. "It was a complete waste."

"However, he would still like to have them regularly patrolling Hogsmede and the local area," the boy continued.

Penn frowned at that, stunned. "Black already has Potter–why do we need dementors around Hogwarts? I highly doubt Black's going to come back there just to rub it into Dumbledore's face."

"I don't know, sir," said the boy uncertainly. "I'm just passing on the word."

Penn considered sending the boy back to Fudge with a piece of his mind, but decided against it. There was no point in arguing with Fudge; only Albus Dumbledore was ever able to overrule the stubborn Minister. "Right," he said finally, realizing the messenger was waiting for some kind of response. "Well...thanks for the update."

"Yes, sir," said the boy, nodding and shutting the office door behind himself.

Penn sighed heavily, heels of his hands pressing firmly into his eyes. He wasn't much of a drinker, but was considering opening the untouched bottle of Hodgen's Best Firewhiskey that sat in his cabinet. Instead, Penn turned to stare at the enormous collage of notes and maps that hung on his wall, hoping to come to some miraculous breakthrough. It was likely that Black had taken Potter, but Penn couldn't quite figure out why. It was also entirely possible that Black was working to stop anyone from returning You-Know-Who to power so he could claim the spot for himself, but it was just so bizarre. There was no real link between the two cases other than time and location. Unless, of course, it was just coincidence, but what a lucky one it would be at that. Black could have kidnapped Weston to figure out who wanted to return You-Know –Who and taken Harry Potter to make some sort of statement. But Penn quickly rejected the idea; Black was not an exhibitionist, and making a big show of murdering the Boy-Who-Lived was not in his repertoire. If Black had taken Potter, then he did it for a reason bigger than murderous revenge.

* * *

Despite the 'closed' sign on the door, a few spare witches and wizards occasionally trickled into the Hog's Head, sitting wordlessly at the few tables in the corner that hadn't been put up for the night. The barman determinedly ignored them, washing glasses out in a discolored basin of soapy water. Lupin recognized most of the people in the room from the original Order, and suspected the others were new recruits. While some occasionally nodded to those they recognized, no one said a word for a long time.

Finally, after twenty minutes of sitting in silence, Dumbledore appeared in the doorway. "Good evening, Aberforth," he said genially, closing the door behind him and verifying that the windows were closed and sealed. "I must thank you again for allowing us to use your establishment for our meeting."

Aberforth ignored Dumbledore and continued washing the glasses.

Dumbledore took a seat at one of the tables. He cast a brief look around at the others, and said seriously, "As you are all aware, Harry Potter went missing two days ago, shortly after the escape of Sirius Black. While the Ministry has no leads on either of them, we are wise to assume that the two events are connected. I have asked you to come here tonight to ask–and only ask–for your support. While the Order is not faced with the same dangers as before, I cannot promise the work will be easy or even safe. Therefore I want each and every one of you to consider your decision very carefully, and do not feel pressured on my account. My opinion of you will not change if you refuse me."

"We're with you, Albus," said McGonagall firmly.

"I proudly gave my service to the original Order of the Phoenix, and I would be honored to do so again!" piped up Dedalus Diggle, waving away a puff of green smoke coming from Mundungus Fletcher's grimy pipe.

Dumbledore glanced around at the others, waiting for everyone's agreement. Satisfied, he said, "The work will be challenging–we have no viable proof of what Black's motives are. I am not sure how many of you are aware, but the Azkaban guards reported to the Ministry that Black was heard talking in his sleep the few nights before his escape. 'He's at Hogwarts.' This, coupled with Harry Potter's disappearance, should give us urgency. The Ministry has done everything they can to throw obstacles in the way, but Black is clever and will likely get around them.

"While the Ministry is working tirelessly to reprehend Black as soon as possible, it does not hurt to have more eyes searching. The Order has the unique gift of having, ah, _alternative_ resources to information," Dumbledore continued. Lupin saw his gaze pass briefly toward Mundungus and Severus Snape. "Our most immediate priority is to establish a Headquarters. Thankfully, our own Hestia Jones has volunteered the use of her home until a more permanent establishment may be sought. If any of you know of a modestly-sized building we might use, please let me know immediately as I would hate to intrude upon Hestia's home more than necessary.

"Otherwise, our second order of business is to get everyone started on an assignment," continued Dumbledore. "I have already spoken to the Hogwarts professors, but have not had the chance to work with the rest of you. Hestia is currently at St. Mungo's, and has luckily been assigned the case concerning William Crowley, the shopkeeper attacked in Knockturn Alley the same day as Harry's disappearance. Mundungus, I ask that you keep a sharp eye and a listening ear to anything you might hear on your, erm, business ventures."

Mundungus straightened up as though he had started to doze a little. He removed the grimy pipe from his mouth, and said, "S'no problem at all."

"Excellent. Dedalus and Arthur, your ties with the Ministry would be of great use. I would gladly accept your recommendation of anyone you might know within the Ministry. The Aurors and Fudge are likely to have leads we will not have access to, and we can use all the information that is out there."

"There are a few people I know in the Auror department who might be interested," said Arthur. "One of them, Kingsley Shacklebolt, is actually working very heavily on the search for Black."

"That would be most advantageous," said Dumbledore, nodding. "And Dedalus, if you would be so kind as to approach Alastor Moody on your next opportunity, I would appreciate it immensely. I understand he is in the process of retiring unwillingly from the Ministry, but his tracking experience is invaluable. I myself was not able to send him an owl as it appears he has anti-post charms around his property. My unfortunate owl returned to me in quite a state."

Dedalus looked a little alarmed at being given the task of approaching Moody, but agreed all the same.

"Now, I believe that covers everything I had intended to tell you. I shall send you all owls within the week of the address to our temporary Headquarters. And I wish to welcome you to the re-instated Order of the Phoenix. Remus and Severus, if you would be so kind as to accompany me back to the castle before returning home, I would like a word about your assignments," finished Dumbledore, standing up.

Lupin glanced at Snape, whose face was completely expressionless. Wordlessly Snape got to his feet, and Lupin did the same. He was certain what Dumbledore wanted from him, but was curious to see what kind of special assignment Snape was to be given. In fact, he was surprised Snape had agreed to be in the Order at all. Dumbledore had briefly mentioned Snape had worked for him in the past, but Lupin had no idea what kind of work that involved.

No one said a word until they were comfortably situated in Dumbledore's office. Dumbledore offered them a variety of sweets and tea, which Lupin and Snape both declined. Finally, Dumbledore sat down heavily at his desk, fingers laced, and said, "Out of everyone, Remus, you know the most about Sirius Black. You know his habits, his tendencies, and perhaps even his weaknesses. If there is anything about Black that you're aware of that could help us, I need to know."

Lupin immediately thought of Black's animagus transformation and felt an icy fist squeeze his heart. He had been debating telling Dumbledore about it, but now that Dumbledore had outright asked, he couldn't lie... "Yes," he said finally. "He's an Animagus. He can turn into a dog. A black one."

Dumbledore looked surprised at that, and even Snape raised a quizzical eyebrow. They were both looking at him, and so Lupin continued, "They all were. James, Peter, and Sirius. They learned the transformation when we were in school, so they could keep me company on the full moon." Lupin swallowed, then added quickly, "I'm sorry I didn't tell you before. I just–it meant a lot to me that you let me come to Hogwarts. I didn't want you to know that I had betrayed your trust."

Dumbledore looked at Lupin for a long moment, then said kindly, "I am glad you told me, Remus. It takes a lot of courage to admit something like that. I imagine no one else knows about this?"

"No," said Lupin, his heart beating heavily against his chest.

"Then it's possible Black may rely on it as a disguise. I will have to inform the rest of the Order, but there's no reason why they should know the circumstances in which Black learned the transformation. Now," he added heavily, "The other matter I wanted to ask you was whether Black has attempted any contact with you."

Lupin shook his head. "No."

"He might, and if he does, I would like you to go along with it," said Dumbledore. "He is going to need allies, and the other Death Eaters may or may not help him. And this is where you come in, Severus," Dumbledore added, turning to Snape. Snape straightened ever so slightly in his chair, his face completely impassive. "I would like you to take up some of your old contacts again. They are likely to know more than any of us."

Snape nodded curtly, and Lupin had to quash his surprise. Snape had been in regular contact with Death Eaters? Well, that wasn't necessarily surprising, but it was shocking to learn Snape was working as a spy against them.

"I suspect that Sirius Black may be up to two things," said Dumbledore gravely. "Either he is seeking to return Voldemort to power, or he intends to take over as the new Dark Lord himself. I do not think he took Harry as ransom; why should he try to barter with the Ministry when he is clever enough to evade them forever?"

Lupin realized he was gripping the armrests of his chair very tightly and had to force himself to let go. "How can you be sure? Maybe it's just...I don't know, revenge or something. Black lost everything the same night Voldemort did."

"Because he would have simply murdered Harry and left it at that," said Dumbledore gravely. "Taking Harry alive was a much bigger risk, and Black will have had a reason for it."

"Are we certain it was Black who took Potter?" Snape asked, speaking up for the first time.

Dumbledore was silent for a moment. "No," he said finally. "We aren't. But I believe it was him, more likely than not."

Lupin looked at Snape, almost expecting the man to continue. He half-hoped Snape knew something that would point the evidence to someone other than Sirius Black as the kidnaper, because it was almost impossible to stomach the idea that James Potter's best friend kidnaped his son to bring Voldemort back. But Snape didn't say anything more, and Lupin was left to wrestle with the horrible thought of Harry being used by someone who was supposed to protect him.

* * *

Sirius made his way angrily down the corridor, a long way ahead of Malfoy's anxious House-Elf Linny, who had to run to keep up. He ignored the curious stares of the portraits he passed, and reaching the breakfast room, Sirius yanked open the French glass doors and marched down the cobbled steps to the back garden. He could see Lucius Malfoy and his wife sitting at a small table near a hedge of rose bushes, and called out angrily, "What the bloody hell was that about?"

The Malfoys looked up, neither one surprised or happy to see Sirius standing there. "You really should send us an owl when you decide to call," drawled Lucius as Sirius reached them. "Luckily Draco is spending time at my sister's estate; it wouldn't do well for your cover if everyone knew where you were. Linny, don't worry about accommodating our guest," he added to his terrified-looking House-Elf, who had just rushed over to the table and bowed deeply. "He's only staying for a moment."

"Why is Weston dead?" Sirius demanded, his fists shaking in anger. He would very much like to punch Malfoy, but knew it would only worsen matters. "That wasn't part of the plan—"

"That's because _your_ plan would have had us all found out," retorted Malfoy calmly. He saw the look on Sirius' face and sighed exasperatedly, continuing, "It's simpler to kill than to lay on twenty Memory Modification Charms. Although I hear the healers at St. Mungo's are having trouble trying to remove yours," he added in an almost congratulatory tone, leaning back comfortably. "But you'll be glad, I suppose, to hear what we found out before he was dumped into the Thames. Your theory that Weston was nothing more than a tool was correct, of course. He was working for someone else who is the real culprit. A wizard named Augustus Middleton. From my understanding, he's privy to some information that might return the Dark Lord to a body, and subsequently to power."

Sirius immediately thought of the book, but kept his face impassive.

"Do you know anything about that?" Malfoy continued. His tone was casual, but Sirius could see the suspicious look in his face.

"How would I?" Sirius snapped. "I left the moment you lot decided to blow out the shop and attract the attention of the dementors. You seem to know much more than myself."

"Yes," said Malfoy smoothly, setting his tea cup in its saucer. "What do you think of the Dark Mark we left behind? A nice message for any of their friends who think they can underhand the rest of us."

"You know the Ministry's going to be all over you," said Sirius testily, adjusting his weight from one foot to the other.

"Oh, no," said Malfoy calmly. "No, they're convinced it's you, of course. Even without the Dark Mark they would have thought it was you, so don't take it personally. We left that little message for our own benefit."

"So you're going to scare away anyone who might try to bring Voldemort back without consulting you first?" Sirius asked flatly, folding his arms.

"It's much more effective than you make it sound," said Malfoy casually, taking another sip of his tea. Narcissa, who sat in silence, gave Sirius a very sour look before tapping the porcelain tea pot, which magically refilled her cup.

"So what about Middleton?" Sirius asked, discouraged that there were even more people involved in the plot to return Voldemort and kill Harry. "What are we going to do about him?"

Malfoy set his tea cup down before answering. "We'll find him and keep an eye on him. Hopefully our message is enough, but if not, we just may call on you for your services."

Sirius' temper flared at the insinuation. "I'm not going to help you kill—"

"I never said kill," interrupted Malfoy coolly. "Although now that you mention it, you just might have to if you hope to protect your friend's bratty child. By the way," he added with false interest. "How is he?"

"Fine," snapped Sirius, not bothering to ask how Malfoy knew where Harry was. "I'm bringing him back to Hogwarts as soon as I can."

"Well, good luck with that," said Malfoy with cool unconcern. "A disgruntled teenager is not ideal for a secret mission. But while I have you," he continued in a very meaningful tone. "I would like to offer you a bargain of my own."

Sirius frowned, his guard increasing exponentially. "What?"

"If we help you find and dispose of Middleton and everyone—if there are others, and there usually are—then I want to know something first. A trivial matter, but indulge me."

Sirius' frown deepened. He glanced around the garden disconcertedly, then said flatly, "What is it?"

"Well, I am under the impression that it wasn't you who betrayed your friends to the Dark Lord," said Malfoy casually. "So I'd like to know who it actually was."

Sirius raised an eyebrow. He hadn't expected Malfoy to ask that, but didn't really like the idea of telling him. Sirius supposed it couldn't hurt, and after a moment said dully, "Peter Pettigrew."

"Oh dear," said Malfoy. His voice was soft but also cruel. "I did wonder why you tried to kill him."

Sirius' temper flared at Malfoy's obvious amusement and it was everything he could do to keep from flipping the table over and strangling Malfoy. "Is that it?" he snapped angrily. "Are you done?"

Malfoy, his demeanor calm and even pleased, took another long sip of tea before answering. "Yes, that answers my question. Call again in three days, and I'll let you know what we find on Middleton."

Sirius shot Malfoy a murderous look before turning on his heel and storming back through the house. He was vaguely aware of the House-Elf nearly tripping over herself to open doors for him, and disapparated the moment he was past the official property lines of Malfoy Estate.

Sirius arrived in an empty field, a few yards from the decrepit summer home he had reached the previous afternoon. Harry was inside, fuming and doubtlessly attempting to escape, but Sirius didn't feel like going back inside yet.

If Sirius was honest with himself, he didn't quite know what he had expected. He supposed it was naïve to think that the Death Eaters would just turn Weston in, or obliviate his memory. Sirius felt sick at the idea of the man being tortured and then murdered, with his body dumped carelessly into the Thames. He tried not to dwell on the fact that he had had some hand in those events, however slight. Sirius sat on the edge of the mossy well and stared at the old house, reminding himself that the man would have killed Harry without a second thought. It was nauseating to know that he had been responsible for a man's death, but Sirius had to keep focusing on his promise to James and protect Harry.

Sirius heard a dull _thud _from the house, like the sound of a bird flying into glass. He looked up toward the second floor window and saw Harry attempting to smash it with a chair. The glass was charmed, of course, and the chair merely bounced off. Sirius sighed darkly, and figured he should go back inside before Harry did any more harm to himself.

Sirius had been trying to avoid any conversation with Harry, but that seemed to be impossible as the boy was determined to ask him all kinds of uncomfortable questions. While Sirius wasn't going to tell Harry the truth, he certainly didn't have the stomach to repeat all the lies and false accusations the wizarding world had come up with. He found it was much easier to just tell Harry nothing, and vowed to drop the boy off as soon as it was safe.

Sirius entered the empty kitchen and filled a glass with water, debating how soon he should write to Dumbledore. Sirius' charms managed to keep Harry from breaking out of the house, but he couldn't make the house itself invisible to others, otherwise no one would find him. Sirius didn't like the idea of leaving Harry alone in such a vulnerable position, but he knew it was impossible to just stick around and wait for the Ministry to arrive. Sirius figured it would be best if he apparated to Hogsmede and sent his owl from there—that way Dumbledore was likely to find Harry within a matter of hours instead of a day or two.

Sirius heard footsteps coming down the stairs and jumped before realizing the only person it could be was Harry. He recalled Harry's accusation that Sirius had no idea how to behave around people as a result of being alone too long, and figured that Harry was probably right.

"Attack anyone while you were out?" Harry asked coolly, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorway of the kitchen.

Sirius felt his eyebrows rise at the question. Harry was obviously safe, but it wasn't like he knew that. For all intents and purposes, Harry was goading a Death Eater and murderer, and Sirius wondered where on earth that sort of reckless behavior came from. "Just paying a visit to an old friend," Sirius replied flatly, thinking of how much he would have liked to attack Malfoy.

"So what am I supposed to do now?" Harry asked in the same voice. "You said you were going to tell Dumbledore I was here."

"I am," Sirius replied heavily, pouring the rest of his water down the drain and setting his glass in the sink. "But I have to make sure you're safe first."

Sirius watched in mixed amusement and disconcertion as Harry rolled his eyes. "This house isn't exactly a prime example of safety."

"Then don't play with the wardrobes," said Sirius dismissively, stretching. He checked his watch—an old one he had found in his bedroom while at Grimmauld Place—and sighed. It was nearing time for dinner, and while Sirius had enough vegetables left over to tide them over for the night, he would have to sneak into town at some point and steal some more, especially if Harry was to stay in this house for a few more days. Sirius had no qualms with sneaking into town, but he didn't like the idea of leaving Harry alone here, even temporarily. Sirius had to keep reminding himself that no one alive knew about the house, and it was perhaps the safest place Harry could be outside of Hogwarts.

Without another word, Sirius walked past Harry into the drawing room, where his books and parchment lay on the dusty old piano that he had been using as a desktop. After nearly five hours of fruitless attempts at translating the previous night, Sirius had searched through his father's old study and found a rusty canister of Daphne's Decoding Dust. The powder was designed to reveal written codes, but Sirius figured with a few extra spells he might be able to get it to function as a magical translator.

Sirius sat down heavily on the creaky wooden floor and spread his work around him, carefully copying the book's title and contents page onto a sheet of parchment. He blew on the ink to make it dry faster, and looked up to see Harry hovering in the doorway. Harry didn't say anything, however, and so Sirius continued about his work in equal silence. Sirius twisted open the rusted lid to the canister, and a pink puff of dust blew out. Waving it away from his face, Sirius sprinkled a little of the pinkish powder onto the parchment, making sure to cover all the writing.

Sirius set the tin aside, and watched in anticipation as the ink on the parchment began to shift, the characters changing form.

"What does it say?" Harry asked from the doorway.

Sirius picked up the parchment, frowning. "_A Moste Complete Historie of the Magickal Spirit and its Seven Properties._" He glanced up to see Harry raising his eyebrows.

"And what's the significance of that?" Harry asked, adjusting his weight from one foot to the other, his arms folded defiantly across his chest.

"I don't know," Sirius said slowly, frowning. He hadn't expected a book about souls to have anything to do with returning Voldemort to power. He skimmed over the table of contents and saw that the book was organized according to the supposed seven properties of the spirit. The last section of the book was titled _The Physical Body_; Sirius skimmed through the pages toward the back, where the leaves of the book were severely damaged and nearly falling out.

Sirius chose a random section of text and copied it down, taking pains to make sure all of the characters were done correctly. Filling up an entire sheet of parchment, Sirius dusted the charmed ink with the decoding powder again. After several minutes, the ink had shifted to reveal decipherable text.

_But know that by whom the entire physical body is pervaded is indestructible. No one is able to cause the destruction of the imperishable soul. The soul never takes birth and never dies at any time nor does it come into being again when the body is created. The soul is birthless, eternal, imperishable and timeless and is never terminated when the body is terminated. As a person gives up old and worn out garments and accepts new apparel, similarly the embodied soul giving up old and worn out bodies verily accepts new bodies. _

"Well?"

Sirius jumped. He had been so absorbed in reading and re-reading the paragraph that he had completely forgotten Harry was in the room. He ignored Harry's question, however, and searched through the damaged pages to find a set of illustrations that appeared to be some sort of diagram for resurrection. Sirius quickly copied a bolded paragraph of text, which then read, _The body may be shaped as clay is shaped, and created as a house is created. Of the physical body, three things are needed, these things being bone of the father, flesh of the servant, and blood of the enemy._

"Hello? You okay in there?"

Sirius snapped back to reality and looked up at Harry as though seeing him for the first time. Harry's expression changed from that of confusion and annoyance to genuine alarm.

"So?" said Harry. His tone was indifferent, but his expression gave him away.

Sirius unstuck his throat, looking back down at the parchment in his hands. "It's a guide," he said slowly. Sirius heard his own voice, but wasn't aware of himself speaking. "It explains how to return Voldemort to a body."


	11. There's a Reason

A/N: My apologies if the formatting comes up strange. The doc editor isn't working properly and deleted all my quotation marks and paragraph breaks. Happy reading!

Chapter eleven:

"What now?" Harry asked late that night.

Harry and Black were seated on separate davenports, staring at the ancient book that lay on the old coffee table between them. They had spent the entire evening thinking of ways to destroy the book, but nothing seemed to touch it. Black had thrown it into both natural and magical fires, tried to blast it to pieces with magic, dumped ink over the pages, and even erase the text. The book defied all attempts at destruction, however, and sat completely unharmed.

"I don't know," said Black quietly. His expression was dark and stony, his arms folded across his chest. The scarlet-colored burn on his hand and wrist—the result of his curse backfiring when he had tried to blow up the book—had begun to heal but left an angry-looking patch of discolored skin in its place.

"What if we lock it in a chest and dump it into the middle of the ocean?" Harry suggested, half-serious.

Black gave a sort of shrug, as though he considered it a viable option.

They were silent for a long moment, then Harry asked the question that had been burning in the back of his mind ever since Black had told him what the book was about. "Does anyone else know about it?"

"Someone named Augustus Middleton," said Black, still staring darkly at the book.

"Who's he?" Harry asked, not recognizing the name.

"No idea."

There was another silence before Harry spoke again. "What about Dark Magic? Do you think it would respond to that?"

Black gave a strange sort of wry smile. "It might," he said.

"Well, then try it out," said Harry, straightening up on the sofa. He saw that Black didn't move, and frowned. "What? You're a Death Eater—how hard can it be?"

Black's gloomy expression had turned to one of dark amusement.

"What?" Harry repeated again, not comprehending Black's expression.

"Nothing," said Black dismissively, leaning back deeper into the doxy-eaten cushions of the sofa. He ran his hands over his face and sighed. Harry had always thought Black looked half-dead and a little mad, but now the deep shadows under Black's eyes and his brooding expression just made him look old and tired.

Harry slipped off his sneakers and turned to stare into the fire, pensive. He had been thinking of Ron and Hermione a lot lately, and hoped he could find a way to contact his friends to let them know that he was still alive.

Black laid down on the davenport, arms folded across his chest. Black was still fully dressed, but that didn't mean much; Harry and Black hardly changed into pajamas at night, instead preferring to switch into clean clothes each morning. Harry watched Black's unmoving figure out of the corner of his eye for a long while, waiting for Black to give some sort of sign that he was awake. After what felt like a lifetime, Harry turned to see that Black was still lying flat on his back, arms across his chest and eyes closed. Harry watched him for a moment, trying to figure out if Black was really asleep. He cleared his throat a little loudly, but Black didn't move.

Slowly Harry got to his feet with his eyes trained on Black, whose pale skin and shadowed eyes gave him the look of a dead person. Harry crept out of the room and into the kitchen, where he had secretly stored a quill and pieces of loose parchment earlier in the day while Black was out. Harry had memorized the layout of the first floor by now, and was able to make his way through the dark hallways without walking into walls or tripping over snags in the rugs.

Harry lit one lamp in the dark kitchen, careful to keep it as dim as possible. Silently he opened one of the cutlery drawers and withdrew his secret supplies, setting them on the countertop. Harry loaded the dusty quill with ink and began to write.

_Dear Ron and Hermione,_

_I hope this letter finds you, because I'm still not sure how I'm going to send it. Black doesn't know I'm writing to you._

_I wanted to tell you that I'm alive and that I'm fine. Black hasn't done anything to me except take me on this wild journey all over the place. I don't know where I am, but it's definitely not England. Black hasn't given me a real reason why he kidnapped me, but he did tell me that he's going to try to return me to Hogwarts. I don't know if I believe that, but he hasn't lied to me or tried to hurt me yet._

_I hope you guys are okay, and don't worry too much about me. I've already got an escape plan worked out. _

_Harry._

The last part was a lie, of course, but Harry figured he should include it anyway so his friends didn't go mad with worry. Harry had seen a single car drive by in the distance earlier that afternoon, but none of the windows and doors would open and so yelling for help had been completely useless. If Harry was going to escape, he would probably have to do it on his own.

When the ink had dried, Harry carefully folded the letter and put it in his pocket. He would carry it around until he could find an excuse to go outside and attempt to find some kind of owl, or even a pigeon. Harry hid the ink and quill back inside the drawer and filled a glass with water before turning out the lamp and exiting the kitchen. He crept through the dark hallway and back into the drawing room. Turning the corner in the doorway, Harry saw Black sitting upright on the sofa and jumped out of his skin.

"I thought you were asleep," Harry managed to say once his heart rate had returned to normal.

Black looked up at him, his face expressionless. "I never sleep," he said dismissively. "Where were you?"

"Getting water," lied Harry, holding up the glass. He had filled it as a precaution, but hadn't really expected Black to be awake and waiting for him. For a wild moment Harry thought Black knew he was lying, that Black knew about the secret letter in Harry's trouser pocket. But Black merely turned back to the flames, apparently satisfied with Harry's answer.

His hands a little shaky from shock, Harry set the glass down on the coffee table roughly and leaned back into the dusty sofa. He looked back at Black, who was staring into the fire distractedly, cracking the knuckles on one hand over and over.

"So," said Harry awkwardly, hoping to take attention away from the fact that he had been sneaking around the house. "When are you writing to Dumbledore?"

"I'm not."

Harry was taken aback. As soon as he recovered himself, he wondered why he was at all surprised Black had lied. "What?"

"There's a change of plans. I'm not leaving you here."

Harry felt his anger rising. "Are you serious? Then what are you doing with me? Or am I just some kind of collateral if you're caught?"

Black snorted at that, but he didn't sound very amused.

In spite of himself, Harry got to his feet. "Look, I've been pretty good about this whole you-kidnapping-me thing, but I'm sick of it, and I'm sick of your crazy mood swings and change of plans!" Harry turned on his heel and stormed out of the room, momentarily forgetting Black's barrier charm and the fact that he wasn't wearing any shoes. Harry stormed through the dark hall, stumbling once over a snagged rug, and made it to the front door before the charm kicked into place. While the door was wide open, Harry pounded against the thin air between the frame.

He heard Black coming up behind him and whipped around wildly. "Let me out."

Black crossed his arms, his face stony and vacant. "No."

"Let me out," Harry repeated, his voice low and angry.

"No," Black repeated.

Furious, Harry picked up a nearby vase and threw it against the opposite wall. "LET ME OUT!" he roared.

Black merely uncrossed his arms, as though readying himself for Harry's eventual attack.

"What do you want?" Harry shouted, kicking the door roughly with the heel of his foot. The contact hurt, but Harry ignored it. "Why did you take me? You've been a complete nutcase this whole time, and you're just stringing me along for the ride! So what is it? You were Voldemort's highest supporter—are you trying to take over in his place, or do you just get some kind of sick satisfaction at messing with Voldemort's downfall?"

"Haven't I told you this whole time what this was about?" Black said. His tone was normal, but it betrayed a sense of anger.

Harry rolled his eyes, throwing his hands up in the air in exasperation. "What kind of stupid tale is that, anyway? You're a Death Eater—why should you give a—"

It was Black's turn to roll his eyes. "It's my business if I don't want to tell you every little detail," he said sharply. "And as for my plan? There is no plan! I have no idea what I'm supposed to do with you, because now it isn't safe to bring you back!"

Despite his rage, Harry paused at that. "What?" he demanded suspiciously. "According to who? The entire wizarding world has been after you this whole time, so what could have possibly changed in the last twenty-four hours?"

"That stupid book is what changed things," snapped Black. "It's a guide to bring Voldemort back, and with you barely able to keep yourself out of trouble for more than ten minutes, it's a—"

"What do you _care_?" Harry demanded exasperatedly.

Black ran his hands roughly through his hair, squeezing his temples as though he was trying to hold his head together. "I know you're angry, but try to be sensible about this—if you and the book are found together—"

"Then even more reason to get rid of me!" Harry snapped.

"Yes, that is the goal, but don't you see?" Black said exasperatedly. "I can't just dump you in an old house because then anyone could find you—and there are people outside of the Ministry who are looking for you. And I can't personally escort you into Gryffindor Tower myself, either! So stop making me insane and go sit back down in the drawing room until I can think of something better!"

Harry was offended by Black's patronizing tone. "I'm not going to listen to you," he said rebelliously. "Everything you've done has made this a bigger mess—"

Black rolled his eyes again. "Harry—"

Harry had acted before he was aware of doing it. Almost automatically, only vaguely aware he was even moving, Harry had lunged forward and knocked Black backwards into the hallway. He grabbed a hold of Black's shirt with one hand and began hitting every inch of Black he could reach with the other. While Black was definitely stronger, Harry was small and agile and could slip out whenever Black tried to pin him down. Harry vaguely heard Black's wand clattering away down the floorboards.

They wrestled like that for several moments before Harry had the sense to try to make for the fallen wand. Harry's excellent quidditch skills were in his favor, and he reached it before Black did. Getting to his feet wildly, Harry trained the wand on Black. They stood frozen in the hallway for a moment, and Harry tried to get over his shock at overpowering Black and think of a spell to escape.

Unfortunately, the only defensive spell Harry knew was the disarming charm, and Black had already been disarmed. He supposed there were mild curses like the Leg-Locker hex or the Jelly Legs Jinx, but before he could think of which would be the most useful, Black suddenly darted into the shadows and disappeared.

Recognizing his opportunity, Harry ran forward and out the front door, which was still hanging wide open. He jumped over the porch steps and ran flat-out across the grass, heading toward the well that marked where the road lay. Harry was nearly at the fencepost when a huge creature barreled into him, and Harry fell forward, the wand flying out of his hand. Harry looked around wildly and saw an enormous black dog roll over from the momentum and run toward a spot in the grass in the distance. A second later, the dog transformed into Black, who had retrieved the wand again. Harry was shocked by the idea that Black could turn into an animal, but barely had the time to process the thought.

He rounded on Harry, who still lay stunned in the grass. Before either of them could say anything, a car's headlights suddenly switched on. Two men stepped out of the car, both carrying flashlights and wearing official uniforms. On the top of their car, red and blue lights were blinking. Stunned, Harry and Black both turned in surprise and stared at the muggle car before Black had the sense to act. Harry barely made it to his feet when Black suddenly ran toward him, grabbing his arm and dragging Harry along.

Harry vaguely heard the sound of them yelling in some foreign tongue. He didn't have time to yell or ask Black what was going on, for they disapparated a second later.

Harry landed roughly on damp pavement, scraping the palms of his hands in the process and letting out a winded _oompf._ Black quickly half-pulled, half-helped Harry to his feet. Harry looked around, and saw the vaguely familiar courtyard of the first house.

"What was—"

Harry's questioned was drowned out by the sudden wailing of at least two dozen cats. Instinctively, Harry shut his ears and looked around, wondering what on earth was going on. Immediately, Black grabbed Harry's arm again—yanking it away from his ear—and Harry had the unpleasant sensation of being squeezed in a place much too small for his body.

While Harry had been able to hold the contents of his stomach the first time, he promptly bent over and heaved, trying not to vomit the second time around. Once his head had stopped spinning and his stomach threatening to erupt, Harry straightened up and looked around. They were standing in the middle of a forest clearing, surrounded by wildflowers. "What just happened?"

"We were almost caught!" said Black angrily. "First the muggle police, and then someone obviously set up some kind of alarm if there was any apparition in front of my old house!"

Harry had momentarily forgotten his rage in all the confusion, but it quickly resurfaced. "Well, then I'm sad they missed us! It would have put an end to this stupid ordeal—"

"You don't know what you're talking about," snapped Black. "In the time it took the muggle police to sort out who you were, anyone could have swooped in and picked you off! And that alarm—yeah, it was probably the Ministry, but what if it wasn't? How would you like to be—" Black suddenly stopped, as though remembering something. "The book," he finally said.

"What?"

"The book!" Black shouted angrily. "I left it in France! It's on the coffee table!" He swore loudly and kicked at a loose stone in the grass.

"You _left _it behind?" Harry demanded.

"I was a little preoccupied with the muggle police!" Black snapped, rounding on Harry. "Not to mention your stupid attempt at escape—"

"Don't blame this on me!" Harry shouted. "This whole mess is your fault!"

Black turned, white-faced, to Harry. For a moment Harry was sure Black was going to murder him. But then, after several moments of pained silence, Black said in obvious forced calm, "Where do your friends live?"

Harry was too stunned to speak for a moment. "I'm not telling you that!"

Black rolled his eyes. "It's too dangerous to take you to Hogwarts, but a friend's house will have to do."

"What makes you think I'm going to lead a murderer straight to one of my friends' houses?"

Black ran his hands through his hair in exasperation, turning away from Harry. After a moment, he turned back around and said, "What will it take for you to trust me on this?"

Harry snorted. "Are you serious?"

Black rolled his eyes again. "Yes, I'm serious."

Harry stared at Black suspiciously for a long moment. He felt stupid even considering Black's offer, but Black didn't behave like a murderer. And there was the fact that Black really had worked hard to protect Harry thus far, even if that didn't make sense. "Give me my wand back."

Black gave him a look as though imploring Harry to be serious.

Harry knew asking for his wand back was a long shot, so he tried to think of something else he wanted from Black, something that had been eating away at him ever since he had woken up in the creepy house with the demented House Elf.

"Answer my questions."

Black gave a wry snort of amusement. "Somehow I don't think you'd believe anything I told you, so that wouldn't exactly establish trust."

Harry raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms, but didn't say anything.

Black sighed. "All right, fine. You get ten questions."

"I don't want ten questions," said Harry tersely. "I want everything. If I'm supposed to believe you won't murder me and my best friend in our sleep, I don't want you hiding anything from me."

"And if I lie?"

It was Harry's turn to roll his eyes. "You asked what I wanted."

Black clenched and unclenched his fists, looking as though he was seriously debating with himself. "Fine. Ask me anything you like," said Black, obviously unhappy with Harry's terms.

"My parents," said Harry, arms crossed. "Explain."

Black heaved a sigh. "We were friends at Hogwarts. Your dad and I, and Remus and Peter. We were all in the same year, same House. Your mum and dad started dating in our seventh year."

That instigated a flood of questions Harry wanted to ask, and he had to try to keep his brain organized so that only one question came out at a time. "Are you a Death Eater? A real one?"

Black rolled his eyes. "No."

Harry nodded. "Yeah, that figures."

Black looked at him suspiciously. "What?"

"Well, you didn't really act like one," said Harry, shrugging. "Death Eaters usually don't care if I'm dead or not."

Black sighed, putting his hands deep in his pockets. "Anything else?" he asked, his tone still heavy with dislike.

"Yeah," said Harry quickly. "Why are you pretending to be a Death Eater?"

"I don't recall ever saying I _was _a Death Eater," said Black wryly. "You just assumed I was."

"You never corrected me," said Harry heatedly. "So why?"

"Well," said Black slowly. "Because it's easier if I let everyone think I am. Nearly everyone already believes it, so I'm just using it to my advantage."

"For what?"

Black hesitated.

"You promised," Harry reminded him, rubbing the back of his neck.

Black kicked at a few loose stones on the ground as though buying time, and then finally said, "To kill Peter."

Harry's eyebrows shot up and his hand froze on the back of his neck. "Peter? You don't mean the one—"

"I mean the very same one," said Black darkly, staring into the forest around them.

Harry's brain struggled to absorb this information. "Why?"

Black sighed again and was silent for a long moment. Harry briefly considered pressing Black, but something about the man's expression held him back.

"I'll tell you anything else," Black finally said, still staring at the ground. "Don't ask me about that."

Harry raised an eyebrow and adjusted his weight from one foot to the other. "You can't seriously tell me you're going to kill your old school friend and expect me not to ask why."

Black cleared his throat roughly then looked up at Harry. Harry had been used to Black's face being angry, brooding, or completely dark. This was the first time he had seen a flicker of fear, and it made Harry's stomach leap in alarm. Black hesitated for a moment, and said slowly, as though he was testing a new language, "He killed my best friend."

There was a ringing silence, the only sound being the breeze running through the trees overhead.

"What about Peter Pettigrew? Why did you kill him?" Harry finally asked.

Black actually chuckled darkly at that. "They're the same Peter."

Harry's trail of thought hit a brick wall. "What? But—"

"Peter isn't dead," said Black dully, pacing. "I meant to kill him twelve years ago, but he got away from me. He blew apart the street with the wand behind his back, killing everyone within twenty feet of himself. He faked his death. I was blamed for all that, of course."

Harry frowned. "So you didn't kill anyone?"

"Not yet, I haven't," said Black heavily, pausing in his pacing.

"Then why does everyone think you're a Death Eater? There's got to be more than just the incident with Pettigrew."

"Let me start a fire," said Black distantly, looking around. He cleared a small patch of ground near a fallen log with his wand and a moment later, it was filled with bright blue flames. "You should sit down," he added, barely glancing in Harry's direction. "And I'm not trying to deflect your question, it's just I need a moment to process it myself, I guess."

Harry did as Black said, massaging the bottoms of his feet. He leaned against the log, sitting in a particularly thick patch of spongy moss. Black had his head resting in the heels of his hands, staring at the ground for several long minutes. Finally, he said, "Your parents knew Voldemort was after them for almost a year before they died. They were good at avoiding Voldemort, but then we all started to suspect that there was a spy close to them, slipping information to him. In the end, they used the Fidelius Charm—"

"The what?" Harry asked blankly.

"It's a concealment charm," said Black heavily, his face emerging from his hands. "It involves two groups of people—in this case, your parents and their Secret-Keeper. The Secret-Keeper's job is literally that—they're the only person who can divulge the whereabouts of your parents. Voldemort could walk right into their living room and never find them, so long as the Secret-Keeper never told him where they were." Black gave a heavy sigh, and then said dully, "They used Peter, who also turned out to be the spy."

"So that's why you tried to kill him," said Harry slowly. "But why did they use Peter? Why not Dumbledore or the rest of you?"

"That," said Black slowly. "Is my fault."

Harry frowned. "What do you mean?"

Black sighed, running a hand over his face. He suddenly looked ten years older, and the light from the fire cast dark shadows under his eyes. "Peter was never very talented when we were in school. I thought I could trick Voldemort—make him think it was someone more capable, so I told your parents to use Peter. And," he continued, his voice starting to waver. He spoke slowly, more carefully, as though not trusting his own voice to work. "in order for this to work, we told everyone I was the Secret-Keeper. Well, I was in the beginning, but I told them to switch because it was too obvious. This way Voldemort would come after me, and Peter would be safe. So when Peter told Voldemort..."

Harry stared at Black for a long moment, unsure of what to think. He supposed the story sounded plausible enough—it explained Black's weird behavior at any rate, but then so did twelve years in Azkaban. It was possible Black was making up what he thought Harry might like to hear, what would put Black in the best possible light, but for some reason Harry didn't believe that was the case. He could almost hear Hermione's voice in his head, telling him to stop being stupid. Harry didn't necessarily believe Black, but he didn't _disbelieve _him either.

"Is that enough?" Black asked roughly, looking up at Harry.

Harry sighed, frowning. "Is that what you've been trying to do this whole time? Kill Peter?"

"That was the original plan," said Black flatly. "But then all kinds of things got in the way." His gaze drifted down to Harry's bare feet and he frowned. "Where are your shoes?"

"I left them behind," said Harry, suddenly self-conscious. "I wasn't wearing them when I ran out of that house."

Black gave a small sigh and withdrew his wand. A short spell later, a pair of rocks had been transformed into sneakers. They were a size too large for Harry, but he didn't complain, glad to have something more than his worn socks.

"The spell won't last forever, so we'll have to find a pair in the morning," said Black, resting his head in one hand, his elbow propped on one knee. "We still have a couple hours of night left, so try to get some sleep."

"I don't think I could sleep," said Harry truthfully. His brain was still buzzing with everything Black had told him. That, and they were sitting in the middle of the woods with nothing more than an enchanted fire.

"Then just try," said Black heavily, rubbing his eyes tiredly.

Sirius awoke with a start early that morning, before the sun had even risen. He looked around, trying to make sense of his bearings. His eyes fell on Harry, who was sitting upright and watching him. Sirius straightened up, suddenly self-conscious; he hoped he hadn't done anything embarrassing in his sleep.

"I have more questions," said Harry by way of good-morning.

Sirius rubbed a crick that had formed in the base of his neck and frowned. "Did you sleep at all?"

"No," Harry said, shrugging. " about time you did, though. I was starting to think you were a zombie or something."

Sirius felt strange at Harry's concern for his sleeping patterns, especially since Harry had attacked him just the night before. He sat up, rubbing his eyes tiredly. He really hadn't intended on explaining anything to Harry, preferring to let his godson think he was a killer. This way Sirius didn't have to explain to Harry that his parents were dead because of him. But if it meant keeping Harry safe, then Sirius would have to take every accusatory glare Harry sent his way.

"You said you and my dad were best friends," Harry began matter-of-factly. Sirius had the impression that Harry had spent the whole night rehearsing his questions. "Why didn't I know about you?"

"They probably didn't want to traumatize you," said Sirius flatly, pulling the loose twigs and moss from his hair. "Whoever told you about your parents, that is. It's one thing to know Voldemort killed your parents, but quite another to think it was because of their best friend."

"What about the other one? Remus or something?"

Sirius shrugged. In truth, he had no idea why Harry knew nothing about Lupin. Sirius would have thought that even if Harry wasn't raised by Lupin, he would at least know who the man was. "I don't know. I don't know anything about Remus these days. I haven't seen him since your parents."

"Why did Peter Pettigrew betray my mum and dad if he was their friend?" Harry asked.

Sirius opened his mouth to speak and sighed. In truth, he had spent the past twelve years wondering the exact same thing. "Things were different back then," he began slowly, frowning. "Voldemort was taking over everywhere, and it was chaos. There was no way to know who committed Dark magic of their own volition and who did it because they were forced to. People were disappearing every day. There are curses that can force someone to kill their own brother—no one trusted anyone.

"When your parents realized Voldemort was after them, we only told a handful of people. But if Voldemort wants your service, it's really hard to say no. I imagine Peter was more afraid of death than he was of murdering his friends," he added bitterly.

"So why didn't you tell anyone that you had switched? Why not Remus or Dumbledore?" Harry asked, frowning.

Sirius groaned at the thought, the holes in his heart aching at the question. "You know the spy I told you about last night? The only possible people it could be were myself, Dumbledore, Peter, and Remus. I knew it wasn't myself or Dumbledore, and Peter was such a talentless thing. I thought he'd be the last person Voldemort would have chosen. It was a process of elimination, and that left Remus. As for Dumbledore," he continued heavily. "I have no idea what was wrong with me. I guess it just never occurred to me that I needed to tell someone the truth. None of us suspected Peter. And I've been paying for it ever since."

Harry nodded, chewing his lower lip in thought. He had a strange expression on his face, one of mingled contemplation and pity. Sirius cleared his throat then said, "We should get going."

When the magical fire had been extinguished, Sirius led Harry through the forest along an old, familiar trail.

"Where are we?" Harry asked after a few minutes.

"My dad used to take my brother and me hunting out here when we were kids," said Sirius. "He said every boy needed to kill something before he became a man. My brother and I hated it," he added off-handedly, remembering how he and Regulus used to hide in the enchanted two-story tent. He looked at Harry and saw the confused expression on his face. "It's the first remote place I could think of," he added. "It's hard to concentrate on apparating when you're being chased everywhere you go."

"Right," said Harry.

There was an awkward silence. Sirius hadn't minded them much in the beginning, but now that he had explained everything to Harry, he felt like he should say something more. He didn't even know if Harry believed a word he had said last night, but it was a good sign that Harry hadn't escaped or tried to kill Sirius while he slept.

"How did you get out of Azkaban?" Harry asked. His tone had been suspicious the night before, but now it was merely curious.

Sirius hesitated. In truth, he barely remembered much from his time in Azkaban or the few days that followed his escape. "You know that Azkaban is guarded by dementors, right? Well, most people go mad in there after a while. When you're around dementors for too long, you'll lose your powers." Here Sirius hesitated, unsure of how to explain his foggy memory of events. "I knew I was innocent, and the dementors weren't able to suck that thought from me, because it wasn't a happy one. But it kept me sane, and helped me keep my powers." He sighed heavily, then continued, "I don't know if you saw last night, but I can transform into a dog—"

"Yeah," said Harry from behind him on the path. "I was wondering what that was about. Is that common? For wizards to turn into animals?"

"Not necessarily," said Sirius. "Witches and wizards who can do it are called Animagi. It's very difficult, and takes a long time to learn. Anyway, dementors can't sense animal emotions very well. While I was in Azkaban, I was able to transform in my cell. So, one night, when they opened my door to bring food, I was able to slip past them as a dog. I was thin enough to slip through the bars around the prison, and I swam to shore."

"You _swam_?" Harry asked incredulously.

"Yeah," said Sirius slowly, trying to remember exactly what had happened. His memories were still so fuzzy from that time.

"So how did you know where to find Pettigrew?" Harry continued.

Wordlessly, Sirius reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a well-worn piece of newspaper. He smoothed it out and handed it to Harry. "When Fudge came by for his annual inspection, he gave me his newspaper. I recognized Peter immediately."

Harry didn't answer. Sirius half-turned and saw that Harry had stopped dead in his tracks several paces behind him. Sirius frowned. "What?"

Harry was staring at the piece of newspaper, frowning. "_Scabbers_?"

Sirius raised an eyebrow. "What?"

Harry shook the piece of newspaper at him. "That's _Scabbers_! He's Ron's pet—there is no way that this is the same rat—"

"You _know _him?" Sirius asked incredulously, marching up to Harry.

"You have the wrong one," said Harry dismissively, looking back at the black and white photograph.

"No, I don't," said Sirius impatiently. If the boy in the photograph was Harry's friend, then that meant Harry could lead them straight to where Peter was. "Harry, this is serious—do you know where your friend lives?"

"Scabbers has been with Ron forever," said Harry defensively. "There's no way he's Peter Pettigrew—not to mention Scabbers has slept in our dorm for two years, and has never tried to hurt me—"

"Well, why would he?" Sirius snapped, getting impatient. "He managed to fake his death, and he's not about to reveal himself unless he knows Voldemort is strong enough to protect him."

"You've got it wrong," said Harry dismissively. "Maybe Azkaban really did get to you—"

Sirius snatched the newspaper from Harry's hand. In a voice of forced calm, he tried imploringly, "Harry, please Peter has obviously been hiding with a wizarding family all this time to keep an ear out for news of Voldemort. You have to tell me where this friend Ron lives—"

"So you can kill his pet?" Harry demanded.

Sirius rolled his eyes. "If I'm wrong, and it's really just a rat, then I'm not going to do anything!"

"Yeah, except then you know where my best friend lives," said Harry suspiciously.

Sirius sighed in exasperation. "Look, do you believe me or not?"

There was a ringing silence in which Harry considered him. "I don't know," he finally said.

Sirius threw up his hands in frustration. Part of him had to commend Harry for being smart enough to keep his guard, but the other part wanted to shake some sense into him. Perhaps he should have worked harder to gain Harry's trust in the beginning. "If I can prove that this rat is Peter Pettigrew, will you believe me then?"

Harry frowned, obviously contemplating his decision. "And how do I know you're not just lying to me?"

"You think it's just coincidence I've been carrying around a photograph that happens to be of your friend?"

"You could have just found the photo, and made up the story afterwards."

Sirius rolled his eyes again. He wanted to rip out his hair. "And what would be the point of murdering your friend?"

"I don't know, I'm not the one who's a psycho killer—"

It was no use; they were going in circles. "Remember our deal? You have to trust me—"

Harry scoffed.

"Merlin, what else could you possibly want to know?" Sirius demanded. "I've answered all of your questions, I haven't tried to kill you—"

"I need a little more reassurance than that," said Harry firmly.

"Like what? Have any Veritaserum stashed away?" Sirius asked, rolling his eyes.

"Any what?"

"Nevermind," said Sirius dismissively, pinching the bridge of his nose in agitation. "Look," he said after a moment, trying to reason with Harry. "I haven't tried to kill you, and I've saved your bum half a dozen times by now. With that, you can reasonably assume I'm not a Death Eater. And if I'm not a Death Eater, why would I kill your friend?"

Harry sighed, obviously deliberating. "And what happens if Scabbers isn't Pettigrew?"

Sirius threw up his hands in frustration. "Then it means I was wrong, and the rat is just a rat," he said, convinced there was no way this scenario could happen. "And I'll leave you at the house, and this will all be over with."

Harry sighed again, crossing his arms and tapping his foot in thought. "Okay, fine," he said after a long moment. "But you have to keep your promise to answer any of my questions."

"Fine."

Harry uncrossed his arms and placed his hands on his hips. He gave Sirius a level look, then said, "The Burrow. That's where they live."


End file.
